


Hope is a Living Thing

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Apocalypse, Endverse, Hopeful Ending, M/M, SPN 5x04, The End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Castiel storms the sanitarium ready to die. The last thing he expects to find is hope for a better ending.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 45
Kudos: 135
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Undici](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undici/gifts).



> This story was written for the [Destiel Artists United](https://destielartistsunited.tumblr.com/) 500 follower giveaway. I had offered a 3k story or a piece of art. After talking with Undici, the outline of this story emerged. "It'll be maybe as much as 10k," I said. Of course, it's never as short as I plan!

Castiel’s breath emerged in desperate white clouds. The sanitarium was bitterly cold. Michigan slumped towards fall with a succession of bitter, wet days but that wasn’t enough to explain it. Castiel waited in the cave of a doorway, shifting his weapon so he could ball his hand into a fist and blow on it. Coalescing dread formed a black hole in his chest. Lucifer was here; the cold could mean nothing else.

Bleakly, Castiel pressed into the maw of the empty room and breathed against his stiff fingers. Lucifer was here and Dean was alone - just as he and Castiel had planned. Dean would get the jump on Lucifer and shoot a hole through his brother, or die trying. _Die trying_ seemed like the most likely scenario. This was it for all of them. This was it for himself. Castiel could only hope it would be quick; prayer was a bit beyond him these days. 

Automatic rifle fire echoed in the vast sanitarium. Their teams splintered like fine threads of wood halved again and again by an axe. Soon there wouldn’t be enough left of them to stand against the demons, and their assault would fail. Castiel closed his eyes, even now instinctively reaching futilely for his grace to tell him what was around the next corner. He swallowed hard against the burn of bile. Then he unclenched his hand, worked cold fingers in and out, and repositioned his weapon. As smoothly as though he’d been created with a rifle in his hand, Castiel raised it and darted from his brief shelter back into the hallway. 

Back into the belly of the beast. 

One demon. One shot. Castiel was quick and he was deadly. Even half addled on his own custom cocktail he was among the best in their camp, carving into the depths of Lucifer’s trap with precision. But the further he got, the more he realized that the sanitarium was more than just a convenient throw-away building Lucifer had dangled before them.

The rooms toward the center of the building showed evidence of being lived in, with fresh trash balled up on tables and areas where the dust hadn’t had an opportunity to settle. A contingent of Lucifer’s soldiers were stationed here, long term by the looks of it. _Why?_ Castiel frowned as he rounded a corner. Something flashed in the corner of his eye and he whirled, firing on instinct. He shot a clean hole into the demon’s shoulder and then whipped out a handgun and fired a devil’s trap bullet to lodge in the demon’s spine. 

The demon abruptly froze, spun, and dropped. Castiel ran to the demon, dropped to one knee, and pulled out his blade threateningly. “What are you protecting here?” he demanded. 

“You shot me!” The demon groaned, then spat at him. 

“Glad we’re on the same page, here.” Castiel jabbed the tip of his blade into the demon’s throat where it sizzled red sparks. “Tell me what you’re protecting,” Castiel demanded. 

“Just kill me,” the demon gasped, clutching their side, fingers clawing over the bullet hole fruitlessly. “Please.”

Castiel smiled grimly. “No.” He increased the pressure of his blade. “You know what I’ll do, though? I’ll leave you for Lucifer. Tie you up like a gift.”

The demon’s eyes widened. Lucifer, according to their intelligence, had casually dragged Hell to Earth along with his demons. Especially _for_ his demons. Lucifer seemed to hold particular contempt for demon-kind second only to his dislike for monsters. He’d instituted a dedicated torture program for anyone who dared to disobey or disappoint him. According to a few accounts from captured demons, Lucifer took his rage out on anyone who happened to get in the way of a fit of pique. If Lucifer did find this demon, there’d be no end to their suffering and no surcease to be found in the kind of quick death Castiel could offer. 

“Come on, man.” The demon groaned in pain, but their eyes were clear as they said, “There’s a prisoner. High level. Been here for months. ‘S the only one here.”

“Where?” Castiel growled, and he flipped his blade in his hand, twirling it so it pointed directly at the demon’s chest. “I’ll make it quick,” he promised.

The demon spat out the details and watched the blade descend with something like relief. After the demon sparked out, Castiel cleaned his blade on the dead man’s jacket and re-sheathed it in his own coat. A prisoner Lucifer needed kept alive? It was hard to imagine anyone hitting that level of importance with the archangel. Unless something they knew, or had access to, scared Lucifer. A spark of hope kindled in Castiel’s chest. Before the assault he and Dean had agreed that there was no other way to defeat Lucifer except for all-out sacrifice. But what if there was another way, after all?

Two levels up Castiel found a hallway protected by a single guard. The demon stood ramrod straight in front of a closed door, their rifle trained towards the closest sounds of fighting. They didn’t move from the post. _Obedient little demon_ , Castiel thought before he brought his own gun up and fired a clean shot through the demon’s temple. 

The demon dropped and Castiel ran forward, hoping to feel any telltale tingle of warding before he ran into a trap. To his relief, the door appeared unwarded against angels or other interlopers. The demons had grown comfortable in the past year, relishing the buffer of a rapidly diminishing human population. With nearly every angel locked away in Heaven and serving Lucifer of paramount importance, it was unsurprising that they wouldn’t bother barring angels anymore. Castiel pushed his way through, and found himself in a small, dark room little bigger than a utility closet.

The man chained to the rusted soil stack at the far end of the room didn’t bother to look up at Castiel when he burst in, though he twitched at the sound of the door banging open. _Conscious, but weak,_ Castiel decided. He advanced on the prisoner carefully, ready to end him quickly and run if this should prove to be a more elaborate trap. “Who are you?”

The prisoner moaned and shifted his shoulders against the thick pipe propping him up. Castiel could hear his lips draw together and release like poorly adhering tape. _He’s thirsty_ , Castiel realized, sliding carefully to one knee beside the man. He kept his rifle propped on his other leg, while he dug in one of his pockets for his flask. He drew it out and uncapped it one-handed, well practiced in the move. He settled the open contained below the nose of the dark-haired man. “Drink,” Castiel commanded him shortly, tipping the flask up to the man’s lips. 

Another grunt and something like a whimper replied, then the man parted his lips again and allowed Castiel to lift the flask for him enough to wet his lips and tongue. The man jerked at the burn of alcohol and Castiel locked his own grimace deep within himself. If he’d retained the power of healing, he could have pressed his grace into this man and proceeded with the job of interrogation. Instead, he waited while the prisoner calmed his breathing and tested his mouth and tongue. When he stilled again, Castiel asked again, “Who are you? Why are you here?”

By sight, Castiel could tell the man was human. Both monster and demon showed their true faces to him. At least his angelic eyesight hadn’t failed him yet. But human didn’t necessarily mean “on their side.” 

The man jerked his chin and Castiel recapped the flask and shoved it back into his pocket before grasping the man’s hair and pulling his head upward.

The prisoner’s face was pale, like he hadn’t seen the sun for weeks, and great black circles underlined his eyes. Deep red flooded the space around his corneas, making him appear rabid, but his voice was surprisingly measured when he slurred, “You’re human.”

Castiel didn’t bother to respond to that, though he added another check mark to his own internal list of grievances against the world. “The demons have been holding you captive. Why?”

“You are part of the resistance?” The man asked. “Or just another bounty hunter?” His gaze flicked down to assess Castiel’s loose, dirty garments with a surprising amount of derision for someone so ill. 

The prisoner’s own outfit appeared to have once been expensive; he wore a thick wool coat that was torn and bloody, but would have once been soft and crisp. He would have been perfectly in sync with angels in that matter, and their preoccupation with fine, neat clothing. “I don’t know about ‘the resistance.’ But my people...We fight against Lucifer,” Castiel said. “We’re here to kill him.”

The prisoner let out a short laugh, and targeted a derisive look at Castiel’s battered rifle and torn clothing. His chest rattled with a deep cough, which ended on a strangely polite smile. “Good enough,” he wheezed at last. “My name is Arthur Ketch with the British Men of Letters. I’m here to infiltrate the devil’s inner circles and report back on Lucifer’s position.” 

Castiel couldn’t stop his own laugh from escaping. “I can see you’ve thoroughly infiltrated Lucifer’s camp. Really, you’re right in the center of it. Amazing.”

Ketch scowled. “We’d heard reports that he was stationed around Detroit but there was no trace of him, of course. He was likely never here. I was captured as I tried to leave. But never mind. Let me free and I’ll return to my post.”

Castiel looked over the man. His movements were feeble. He was clearly ill and possibly even a bit delusional. He was also wrong. “Lucifer is here,” he said. “Right now.”

At this, Ketch’s eyes grew wide and he looked around the room like he might spot Lucifer skulking behind the door. “You must get me out,” he hissed. “Only we can stop him. My people must be notified of where he is!”

Castiel settled back and watched him coolly. “What do you know?” he asked, finally. “Tell me.”

Ketch must have seen some resolve in his eyes, because he shifted weakly against the soil stack and sighed before saying, “There’s a tool we have aboard our ship. A relic of a bygone era, that can pull even an archangel from its vessel. With the hyperbolic pulse generator, we can pull Lucifer out of the host body as easily as ripping out a demon. Disembodied, we’ll be able to cast him back into the cage with a spell we manufactured as soon as we realized the end times were beginning. If you free me now, we can both go to my ship. You’ll see the Men of Letters are the only hope for this sorry world against the scourge America unleashed on us all.”

“You have a ship?” Castiel asked sharply. “Where?”

“The Saint Lawrence seaway. I don’t know exactly where. I’d need to cast the runes to find our current heading but...it’s there. With Lucifer once again nearby, we can find him and stop him. But we must act quickly.” Ketch said all this in a low wheeze, fast like time was running low. “Unlock me, and I swear you can come with me.”

Castiel hesitated, thinking rapidly. There was a lump in his throat, a rising pressure he could readily recognize as emotion now. He swallowed hard against it. That anyone on this literally god-forsaken earth had any hope at all seemed as ludicrous as it was intoxicating. Castiel could not wholly believe in it. But he let the pieces click into place. “Tell me how to find your ship,” he said finally. 

Ketch’s gaze grew cooler. “You’ll need me along,” he grunted. “Our ship is warded. No mere hunters can get inside.” He tossed out the word “hunter” like it was refuse. Gunfire echoed in the hallway. The fighting had arrived at their level at last. “Uncuff me and let’s go,” he said shortly. 

Castiel shifted his gun to his other hand and reached inside his jacket, drawing out a long silver blade. It was sharp enough to pick a lock, even so long out of Heaven. It was sharp enough for a lot of things.

Ketch’s gaze dropped to it and he lifted his lips in a cracked smile. “But I see you have other plans.”

Castiel’s blade flashed in the dimly lit room, and then he was on his feet and running.

* * *

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean’s hissed greeting was barely audible above the shushing leaves of the forest canopy above them. Before them, the sanitarium sprawled, an elaborate mouse trap. The cat - Lucifer - wandered in a white suit through the rose garden like a Victorian lady taking a calculated turn around the garden, waiting for an assignation. 

“Change of plan,” Castiel whispered, laying a hand on Dean’s arm to stay him from rushing forward to confront Lucifer, as he’d been about to do. 

A slideshow of emotions passed over Dean’s face, too fast to process. Dean shot him a wan smile. “Change of plan, huh? Guess we’ll take this bastard on together.” He nodded toward the garden. “He’s there.” 

“I know.” Castiel tightened his grip on Dean’s arm. “We can’t.”

“We talked about this! You lead the front, I take the back and get the drop on the Devil. Bang. Problem solved.” He looked up at the building, still bursting with bright gunfire. “We don’t got another fucking choice.” 

“He knows you’re here.” When Dean rolled his eyes, Castiel jabbed his finger towards their feet. “He knows you’re _here_. I saw him from the building.”

After leaving Ketch cooling in his prison cell, Castiel had raced towards the back of the building, hoping to discover Dean still alive. Through the grimy windows, he’d seen Lucifer strolling through the garden, casting coy glances towards the woodland fringe surrounding the building. He was waiting for Dean in the garden alone - away from gunfire and distractions. Away from the chance of anyone else getting in a lucky shot and buying Dean just enough time to get _his_ lucky shot. 

He and Dean had known this would be the end for one of them - probably both of them. But watching Lucifer smirk to himself had sent a bolt of clear, cold rage through Castiel. With that rage came clarity. He’d run for a window at the end of the hall, shattered glass framing the opening like jagged teeth. He’d jumped to the earth below, rolling clumsily across the overgrown lawn. Then he raced for Dean, heedless suddenly of the hopeless fight left behind him, not even caring about the lack of cover in the gaping stretch of lawn between the sanitarium and the woods. He’d either die or he wouldn’t. 

Now, Castiel watched Dean process the knowledge that Lucifer was idling outside waiting for his attack so he could bat it away like a kitten does a mouse. Dean stared at the Colt in his hand and when he looked up, there was nothing but empty despair in his eyes. “I got no choice, Cas,” he whispered. Dean hesitated for a moment, mouth working like he was trying to articulate an argument. Then he shook his head and raised up from his crouch. “Stay here, okay? If I don’t make it, tell everyone to get the fuck out of camp. Gotta be only a matter of time anyway before Lucifer got rid of the last of us,” he muttered seemingly to himself. “Wish me luck,” he said heavily, shaking off Castiel’s hand. “Fuck knows I could use it.”

Castiel watched Dean start to walk away, the shifting shadows of leaves turning his shoulders to lace. He’d known Dean long enough by now to see when his resolve was immovable. Dean had set out today to kill Lucifer or die trying, and Castiel suspected that he didn’t much care which one it was at this point. Castiel shook his head slowly, and let go of the fantasy he’d briefly nourished of some magical solution happening to fall into their lap right at the precipice of their own demise. _I should go with him_ , he thought. _Dying together has got to be better than dying alone._ He swallowed hard, and followed. 

* * *

It all went wrong, went sideways. Because of course it did. 

Together, they confronted Lucifer, who awaited them like an ancient marbled statue against the dreary backdrop of the sanitarium. He was the only pristine thing in a hundred miles, Castiel thought inanely as they entered the garden. Even as fallen as he was, Castiel could feel the hum of his archangel grace, primordial and strong. He hated it. He yearned for it.

Lucifer had taunted them, which Castiel had expected, and showered them with condescending praise, which Castiel hadn’t. Dean had listened to him, listened to every golden dagger that fell from the Great Deceiver’s lips. Until Lucifer made the mistake of bringing up Mary Winchester. 

Something snapped awake in Dean, at the mention of his mother’s name. He raised the Colt. He shot his brother in the middle of his wide, smooth forehead. Sam’s body toppled like a felled tree.

For a moment, the garden held no sound except for muffled gunfire as their fellow hunters died behind the sanitarium’s brick walls. And then Lucifer opened his eyes again and grinned widely. He lifted one hand, waved it jauntily, and Dean flew across the bushes and cracked against a pale concrete wall that penned in the roses. 

In the seconds while Dean’s body was in flight and Lucifer had craned Sam’s neck impossibly long to track it, Castiel pulled out his own Plan B. 

In the camp, it was share and share alike, which was why Castiel hoarded. He scavenged and he hid things and he waited. Sometimes, thinking of the arsenal he’d managed to squirrel away over the past few years, he wondered if he had held onto things too long. Would a weapon or magical artifact he’d found have saved a life down the line? But the strategist in him kept quiet and kept his weapons close. 

While Dean fell into a wall, Castiel dug into the satchel at his waist and pulled out a bottle. It was an ordinary brown beer bottle, small and slender and full of oil. An oil-soaked, dirty rag tufted from the top. Castiel pulled out the bottle and lit it on fire. 

It felt like absolution as he drew it near his ear. Holy oil would destroy Castiel quickly and mercilessly, even with the full use of his grace. Surely it would at least slow down an archangel.

Castiel hurled the bottle towards Lucifer and watched it shatter in the center of that crisp, white suit. Flames spread across Sam’s body like a blanket. Lucifer shrieked once. Twice. And then he was gone, disappeared into the folds of the universe to escape the holy flame.

Castiel blinked in surprise at the empty space in the garden once occupied by Lucifer, then he raced across the garden. 

Dean was down on the ground, moving feebly. He looked towards Castiel with hooded eyes, slipping towards unconsciousness. Heaving himself upright on one arm only had the effect of toppling him to sprawl along the stone path, rather than the wall.

Castiel looped his rifle over one shoulder and made sure his handguns were accessible. He scooped up the Colt and jammed it into his belt, then picked Dean up in a fireman’s carry. Dean was heavy despite years of lean eating, but Castiel could still boast greater strength than most in their camp. He grunted under Dean’s weight, and began a quick, careful trek back to the Jeep.

Castiel’s entire body felt like a vibrating guitar string on the verge of snapping and his skin prickled, expecting Lucifer to reappear at any moment and pull his spine out through his abdomen. He crossed the lawn into the wooded cover without dying. If Castiel believe in signs from God anymore, that would be a powerful one. Instead, Castiel recognized it as sheer, dumb luck.

When he reached the Jeep, he spared a quick glance at the distant brick building. The gunfire had ceased. The last of the hunters likely dead or wishing they were. They’d lost everyone, but then that had been the plan all along. Castiel tamped down his instinct to grieve and tumbled Dean into the passenger’s seat of the Jeep, where he slumped, fully unconscious. He was alive, and so was Dean. That was a start. Castiel ran to the driver’s seat and jumped inside. The Jeep coughed to life, absurdly loud in the dead city. Castiel glanced around them surveying for threats before driving away. Behind them, the sanitarium stood ringed by empty woods. Before them was nothing but the burned out city, and the road. 

* * *

“Wake up. Goddamnit wake up, Dean!” 

Castiel pried at Dean’s eyelids and slapped him hard against the cheeks. Once. Twice. A third time.

Dean groaned like a dying animal, and turned his chin away from Castiel. “The fuck?” he asked blearily, eyes slowly fluttering open. “Fuck times’it?” His eyes first focused on Castiel, then shifted to the roll bar of the Jeep. Dean stared at it for a long moment, a computer recalibrating. Then he sucked in a huge breath and sat up, breath turning shallow as he looked around. “The fuck, Cas?” he asked as memory returned. “What did you do?”

“Talk later,” Castiel said, handing him a firearm now that he knew Dean wouldn’t shoot him out of misdirected instinct. “Croats now.”

They might have miles of bridges burned between them, but Dean’s trust never wavered when it came to Castiel’s ability to hear infected humans before they turned up to tear a squad to pieces. Castiel might have turned mortal, but his vision and hearing remained intact, even down to the now-dead static of angel radio. Castiel knew as plain as seeing them that the nearby Croats had sensed them and they were hungry, growling for blood. There was a crowd of them approaching now, blocking the road. There were too many to ram through without risking the chance of hungry bodies tumbling into the Jeep and gnashing their way into Dean. They’d have to fight.

“Now we know where they all went,” Castiel grunted, attention half on the oncoming horde and half on Dean fumbling towards full wakefulness, one hand pressed to the bloody knot on his head. “All the Croats. Lucifer had ‘em ring the city. Finish us off no matter what, I’m guessing.”

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, automatically reaching for his guns to prepare for a quick, bloody battle. He looked around them, alert now.

Once he made sure Dean’s vision had cleared, Castiel turned back to the wheel. His knuckles burned white with tension. “You ready now?” he asked shortly. 

Dean answered with a sharp grunt and Castiel set off at high speed, tires spinning, engine revving. Ahead, they could now see the army of hungry diseased humans ripping each other apart to get to them.

They seemed legion, crammed into the tight city streets, streaming from between buildings and smashing drunkenly into poles and broken windows as they pushed towards the escaping Jeep. 

Dean swore an intricate string of curses aimed at God and Castiel in turn. He seemed wide awake now, rapidly settling firearms around him to draw when he inevitably wouldn’t have time to reload. “You keep her straight,” he shouted in Castiel’s ear over the roar of the wind and the ravening crowd. He tugged at a pouch on Castiel’s belt, unseating the velcro to pull out a grenade. He flashed it once in front of Castiel, then rose to his knees. “Be ready,” Dean gritted, and pulled the pin. 

The grenade detonated at the crest of the human wave. Castiel got low in the driver’s seat and accelerated through the fire and blood. Gunshots surrounded him, deafened him. Bodies fell onto the Jeep, climbed onto the hood, and were blasted apart by Dean. 

Time once again had no meaning beyond blood and the shrieking of mortal bodies as the end of the world ground them up. 

When they finally broke free of the mass of diseased humans forming Lucifer’s last guard posted around the city, Castiel still drove like a madman. He arrowed the Jeep down the nearly empty highway, the city transforming towards open residential streets and sprawling, silent subdivisions. 

Dean’s fist clenched around the collar of Castiel’s jacket, shaking him until Castiel glanced over. His flashing green eyes were inches from Castiel. “What the hell, man? Lucifer’s still alive, right?” Dean shouted over the wind. “We gotta go back. Find a way back into the city. We gotta take him out!”

Castiel looked away, focusing grimly on the cracked center line. All that mattered was the road ahead, and getting Dean far away from Lucifer. “Hell no.” 

Dean pulled the Colt from where Castiel had stashed it between them. He rapped the gunstock against the dash. “We know where the devil’s doing business. We act. _Now_.” 

Castiel laughed. “With what? One bullet didn’t work so you’ll try two? We don’t have anything that can take down an archangel. Hell, I used the last of my holy oil just getting us the fuck out of there. That was a suicide mission back there. Lucifer was waiting for you. He’s _playing_ with us.” Castiel suppressed a shudder. Garnering the attention of an archangel was a poor strategy for staying alive and Castiel now saw that Lucifer was simply playing a long game with them. They were entertainment, not a challenge. 

“Wait. Back up. You had holy oil? _Had_? That would’ve been really fucking useful to know.” There was a pause, like Dean was searching for words. And then he was shifting towards the door, hand on the handle. “Pull over.”

Castiel risked a glance at Dean. Speed turned the landscape around them into strips of paint. “Are you crazy?”

“You run if you want. I’m going back and finishing this goddamn fight. He’s gotta be weak now. I’ll take another shot.” Dean glared at him. “Pull. Over.” 

“Dean. You can’t--” 

The world behind them erupted in fire. 

It was always surreal, the bright flash of a distant explosion before the sound caught up, like a silent movie playing out. And then the rumble surged over them, the groan of fire and shrieking collapse of metal and brick and stone. 

Jackson disappeared in a fireball that belched black smoke over the city, eating away the sky and the buildings behind them. 

Castiel turned back to the road, managing to glance at Dean between rearview mirror checks of the carnage Lucifer’s temper tantrum left behind. There was nothing in Jackson anymore. No intel, no resistance, and no Lucifer. The archangel would have dusted ash from his white jacket and flown away, a sneer drawn up on Sam Winchester’s face. 

Dean turned around slowly and settled into the seat, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Great,” he said at last. “Friggin’ awesome. What the hell do we do now?”

“There’s another way to take out Lucifer,” Castiel said, remembering the bitter man chained to iron. He sucked on his lip, considering, then laid out his ace card. “And if it works, we might be able to save Sam at the same time.”

Dean laughed at that, sharp and cold. “That ship sailed a long time ago. Years ago, man. We go back, we pull out anyone left at camp who can fight, and we go at him hard. Together. If you think you got something better than the Colt, you’re delusional. You don’t think I’ve looked for other options.”

“I don’t think so, no. You’ve been hell bent on that as your hail Mary for years now. Just...hear me out, okay?” Castiel wasn’t quite ready to meet Dean’s baleful glare just yet and stared at the road as he talked. He told Dean about the prisoner he had found, and what Ketch had said about an artifact with the power to rip an archangel from his vessel. 

Dean snorted derisively, though he’d listened to Castiel with steady attention. “If this Ketch guy was so handy, why the hell didn’t you bring him along?”

Castiel rubbed wearily at his forehead. A headache bloomed there, product of the fight, dehydration, and the slippery withdrawal of drugs from his system. “I can only handle one dead weight at a time,” he snapped. 

Dean had little to say to this argument. He settled in his seat, clearly seething. But he wasn’t trying to jump out of the car anymore, which Castiel took as a victory. 

They drove in a wide loop around Jackson, skirting well south of Detroit, before stopping for the night in the middle of vast farmland gone fallow and redolent with the smell of decaying hay. If there were Croats around, they’d have their work cut out to find them. 

The night was cold; the open jeep offered little warmth aside from being drier than the ground. Dean snapped a bedroll from the kit bolted over the wheel well in the back and opened it up. “I’ll keep watch first,” he said, tossing the blanket at Castiel. “You get some sleep and we’ll figure our shit out in the morning.”

Castiel unfolded the blanket and pulled it up over his shoulders. It was short, not full sized, and it slid up to his knees, leaving his legs partially exposed. He shivered in the chilly night air, and from the strain of the day. Resolutely, Castiel closed his eyes.

In the field insects whirred as though nothing terrible had scraped half the world’s population from the planet. _God’s garden_ , Castiel thought wearily. _Lucifer’s garden now_.

“You really think we could save Sammy?” Dean’s voice was small. Exhausted.

Castiel knocked his head back against the back of the seat in an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know what to think. But the Colt didn’t kill him. Holy fire seems to be a momentary inconvenience.” He scrubbed at the corner of one eye, trying to scrape out debris that might very well be permanently embedded in his eyelid. His hand shook from fatigue. A shiver stole through him, rattling his shoulders.

There was a huff to his right and then Dean said in an exaggerated tone, “C’mere.”

Castiel opened his eyes and blinked at Dean. 

“C’mere,” Dean repeated. He lifted one arm, clearly expecting Castiel to slide under it, into it. When Castiel did nothing but stare, he said, “Friggin’ cold and I don’t got my warm jacket.”

Castiel’s mind wanted to dissect the offer, lay it out in all its many parts on the ground, and try to understand what it meant. But his body dragged with the afterburn of fear and the acid simmerdown of his pre-fight cocktail. His hand still shook, even as he moved his fingertip from his face to rest on his mud-streaked thigh. He looked at Dean, who gazed a little over Castiel’s shoulder, deliberately unfocused. Dean’s arm waited in the air. 

Gratefully, Castiel moved then, leaning under the wing of Dean’s arm and settling the blanket over both of them. Nearly instantly, he felt better. Warmer. 

He felt other things too, of course, but those didn’t bear thinking about. 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean and Castiel slept fitfully, wrapped up in the warmth of each other as they’d done over long winter nights in their shared camp cabin. In the early days of falling, Castiel used to feel like he could pass grace surreptitiously between them that way, through quiet shoulder to shoulder contact. He’d still been in denial about his waning abilities, still cultivating his delusion that he was some kind of guardian for Dean, rather than just another game piece knocked away from the board by larger players. Castiel woke again when the moon was high, shifting so Dean could lean against him instead. Settling himself steady as a rock, so Dean could rest. As Dean slowly relaxed like an engine ticking down, Castiel watched the night sink around them. It was still and quiet, and that was a blessing at least. 

Dean woke before the sun rose, though dawn was on its way. The world surrounding them was gray and cold and all around them grasses whispered like waves. 

“Ugh,” Dean grunted, pushing himself away from Castiel’s shoulder as soon as he was awake enough to move. “Anything going on?” he asked blearily. 

“All quiet,” Castiel reassured him, sliding away to offer Dean space - always necessary in the morning, and doubly so these days. He lifted a partially unfolded map from where it lay on the seat on his other side. “I routed a course. It should keep us away from most major cities.”

“Show me,” Dean grunted, scratching at his stubble. His terse request seemed like an olive branch. 

Castiel talked Dean through his plan. They’d drive out of Michigan, sticking to rural roads for most of the way. That would keep them from Croat territory, or from getting stranded on some built up, walled highway. Once out of Michigan, their path would carve up towards the coast of Lake Erie. There, they’d begin their inquiry into the purported Men of Letters ship. 

“You really think these people have something that can defeat Lucifer?”

Castiel shrugged. He wasn’t sure, but that wasn’t really the point. They were down past the bottom of the barrel and digging into unforgiving rock at this point. “I think it’s worth a try. We already know that the Colt--”

Dean interrupted him with a gusting sigh, muttering something under his breath. He threw his hands up in the air, though. “Might as well fucking try. Walk me through this one more time. What exactly did that British guy say?” 

Castiel repeated the information he’d garnered from Ketch, regretting now that he hadn’t taken the time to get more specifics from him. There hadn’t been time, coming up against the ticking time bomb of the general assault on the compound. 

Together, they poured over the maps. Neither of them had spent much time on the coast of the lakes, though they’d encountered pockets of travelers who’d used the water as a refuge from the Croatoan scourge. When they finally agreed on a route, Dean looked Castiel in the eye for the first time since Castiel had dragged him from Lucifer’s trap. His mouth settled in a thin line. “I’m still pissed at you,” he said quietly. 

Castiel nodded solemnly. He’d expected nothing less. “I know.”

“Until we get a line on Lucifer again, we might as well check out a plan B.” Dean laughed mirthlessly. “God knows I got nothing else to go on. Maybe the Brits know something we don’t. Maybe not.”

“You’ll go along with me then,” Castiel sighed, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “For now.”

“Good. That’s good.” When they were ready to leave, Castiel drove them out of the field. Sudden sunlight spun the dew into gold as it flung from the long weedy grasses onto the windshield. He tried to use the vein-thin trails of water as a meditation point, and pull calm to his gut like a stone. 

* * *

They drove.

If cities were hotbeds of virus-maddened humanity, rural areas were either paranoid enclaves or abandoned entirely. Whenever they passed another occupied vehicle, the encounter was always weighted with fear. Castiel and Dean would eye the other vehicle warily, and get the same in return. Only after several minutes of solitude on the road would a sense of safety begin to return. There was just as much to fear from humans, after all. 

Except for the occasional car and stray animals wading down the shoulders like the asphalt was a stream cutting through the countryside, the roads were quiet. In five years or maybe a decade, they’d start to fall to ruin. Grass seeds would blow into cracked asphalt and take root, spreading green over and through. Given enough time, seeds were as effective as a sledgehammer. Already, green wrinkles streaked the concrete. 

They skirted wide of Toledo, crossing out of Michigan on the edges of a small barely-a-town lost in a corner of Ohio. After drawing a low loop through the state they slowly shifted their journey towards the water. If there was a British ship on the lakes, they could learn more from those who now made their home there. 

Extending out from Sandusky Bay on the south coast of Lake Erie was flotilla of small islands rumored to be safe havens against the end of the world. Dean approached the first overlook of Lake Erie cautiously, choosing a high field so far away that the islands looked like ink blots on the water. 

Down below them, just visible between the trees, the waterfront glinted with metal. Wood rose like teeth from barriers erected around the shore. Castiel whistled. “I didn’t realize this was so fortified now.” Makeshift barriers chopped the scenery into jagged strips of wood and water. 

“Croats can’t swim worth shit,” Dean said, eyes sharp and squinted against the water. “Rage only gets you so far before you sink, I guess.”

Castiel surveyed the lake in front of them. The surface was dotted with a myriad of small sea crafts, anchored a little ways off shore. In the distance, larger ships and barges patrolled the water. “I can see why that would feel safe. More isolated.”

Dean made a small noise of disagreement. “It’s dangerous in its own way. About a year ago me and a scout team came across a family of survivors who’d been toughing out their time on the water, only for their boat to get attacked, ransacked for parts...you name it. They just got away with their lives. Turned ‘em off of being around other people.”

Castiel hummed. “Can’t blame ‘em for that.”

“Yeah, well. If there’s one thing us folks on the ground are good at, it’s screwing each other over just to get the upper hand in a shit situation.”

Below them, ringing the hill, the nearest town appeared to be abandoned. At this time of year, with chill cutting the air, usually they’d expect to see at least some sign of life: smoke from a cooking fire or someone moving in open areas, trying to eke out some semblance of agricultural survival in the quiet, sunlit time. Down below, the buildings sat cold and gray.

Dean clicked his tongue at the sight of it. “Might as well check town for supplies. Probably picked over this close to the water.”

“Probably,” Castiel agreed, but they drove down the winding hillside anyway. It was a small settlement, barely a town, with a short main street composed of very few storefronts and several broken-eyed houses that had been grand long before the end of the world. 

There was a rundown Gas ‘n’ Sip with intact windows - always a good sign. But as soon as they entered, they realized it was because the shop had been left unlocked. Castiel laughed as he ran a finger across the already dusty, very empty shelves. “They’ve taken everything that hasn’t been nailed down.”

“Surprised they left the shelves,” Dean grunted. “There’s nothing here. We might as well move on.”

Castiel tapped a finger on the shelf thoughtfully. “I want to check something first.”

Dean leaned against the opposite shelf and a fleeting grin lit his features. “Dude. Your ‘every Gas ‘n’ Sip has the same features’ theory does not hold up. We found a cache in just one of ‘em and god knows how many I’ve hit..”

Castiel glared at Dean, but without ire. It was good to see him smile. Good to see him laugh, even if it was edged in derision. Instead, he tipped his chin up, raised an eyebrow, and stalked to the back of the store. “Paolo swore that most of ‘em had it. Maybe it’s an east coast thing. We’re in Ohio now. That’s getting close.” Castiel ignored Dean sarcastically parroting this behind his back. He’d been given this tip by a very earnest hunter who’d worked stints at a few different Gas ‘n’ Sip locations when he’d needed to make some quick cash between hunts. In the stations Paulo had worked at, they’d kept lock boxes as part of an opiate and other prescription “safe returns” program. They were kept locked away in hidden back closets, unmarked and uninteresting.

The office in the back room had been ransacked by an animal - or swarm of animals, Castiel observed after unseating another tangled nest of shredded papers from stacks of boxed files in the back. When he found what he was looking for, he let out a shout of triumph. 

The drop box was a tall, narrow cylinder with a hatch on the top. It was heavy, constructed of durable metal, and appeared intact. Castiel hefted the cylinder and was rewarded with the rattle of plastic and pills. He grinned at Dean, who rolled his eyes. 

“Fine,” Dean said with an expansive gesture for Castiel to break into the container. “You win. Maybe it’s an East Coast thing.” He crossed the room to steady the cylinder, gripping it above the bolt holes at its base. “Let’s crack this piñata.”

Castiel thumbed the numbers on the lock to 1957, the year Gas ‘n’ Sips were first established. It was, according to Paolo, the default combination - and one few shop owners tended to change. It didn’t work, though. “Conscientious owner,” Castiel muttered, leaning down towards the keypad. “Guess that’s why it’s hidden inside and not left bolted by the counter.” He listened carefully for the tumbler clicks inside the lock as he spun each number, one by one. “They must have known this was the end. Wonder why they didn’t take this?”

“Probably dead,” Dean said with a small shrug. “Maybe opening their door was their last will and testament.”

Castiel hummed thoughtfully at that, then triumphantly as the lock clicked open. He raised the sturdy hatch with a groan of thick hinges, and then with Dean’s help he toppled the container to lie drunkenly on its side. Bottles slid into view, and bags of unmarked pills whose design Castiel had memorized. He grinned. “Good,” he said as something in his chest unwound. His skin felt tight, his mouth dry at the sight of the bounty. “That’s a good haul.” 

Trailing his fingers over the stash, he lingered for a moment on a small baggie of hexagonal pills. Now _that_ was something to cut the jitters, weed them out of him like a fierce gardener and discard his anxieties like so many weeds in a corner of his mind. Castiel swallowed hard and stared at them for several solid breaths before plucking them up and dropping them to one side. Those would fetch favors - help they might need in their quest to defeat Lucifer. Who knows what - or who - they would need to buy along the way. 

Slowly, he began to sort through the drugs surrendered by a more optimistic society. As he packed away the supplies in a backpack, Castiel knew he couldn’t risk the loss of focus. He was in charge now; this was his mission. Still, his fingers lingered on them, and shook. The only thing that steadied his resolve was looking at Dean. 

Dean had been quiet since fire consumed Jackson and they set off on their new, nebulous mission to uncover a magic egg from a shadowy organization. It made sense. His life had once again transformed from clear purpose to one dependent on circumstances entirely out of control. More than that, Dean was mourning his brother, Castiel suspected. Again. And that left Castiel. There were no other backups, no team leaders testing camp hierarchy. There was only Dean and himself, and the fate of the world hanging on the two of them. Castiel stowed the rest of the medicine away. Maybe after-- to celebrate. If they didn’t die. Maybe then he’d let go again.

After the raid on the Gas ‘n’ Sip they made their way to the shore, slipping between the plank wall at the water’s edge where a board swung loose. As the sun set, Dean waded between two great, downed trees and fished for their dinner. The shoreline was unfairly beautiful, serene where Castiel and Dean settled between broken branches. They were far from the boats patrolling the water, far from screaming cities or paranoid homeowners, far from the militias tearing up diseased and healthy alike. 

In the waning light, Castiel studied their map, but he also studied Dean. He had rolled his jeans up to his knees, exposing pale skin above the water line. Dean moved slowly as he fished with their short line in the shallows, moving like a hunting crane with his eyes only on the water. He was beautiful in moments like these, losing himself in the quieter hunt that fishing provided. 

Castiel let the map drop to his lap entirely, and drank in the sight unrepentantly. The sunset gilded Dean in warm peaches and rich purple shadow. Castiel ached when he looked at him, and the ache had the constancy of a poorly healed bone. 

When Dean waded to shore, he brought two fish with him. They cut them up and cooked them on Dean’s grain alcohol burner, a warm fish stew to stave off the cold. Tomorrow they’d try to gather intel on the ship. For tonight, they had warm food, a quiet shore, and the curving shelter of tree limbs dipping low to the pebbly beach.

* * *

The sea port town of Silver Creek was technically on Castiel’s maps, but the physicality of its boundaries and extent of its fortifications were far too new to have made it onto anything printed. 

A tall wood-and-wire fence surrounded the town like a sprawling dog pen, as tall as two grown men standing on each others’ shoulders. Makeshift sentry posts dotted the fence line, some of them clearly adapted from simple metal construction scaffolding, others poorly constructed piles of junk. 

Castiel and Dean had spotted the town’s defenses from far enough away to give them leisure to survey it. The barrier was lit at night and patrolled constantly. Those in the town seemed to bristle with weaponry; rifles were slung over shoulders and handguns strapped openly to hips. 

There was an entry point on land - a single gate on the southwestern end of the town. On the lake, the town maintained a more active port, with small and medium craft shuttling into the harbor. Dean had thrown a sharp elbow into Castiel’s side when they’d observed one of the boats debarking, men and women armed with weapons and bags of goods. “You think they’re pirates? Those look like pirates.” He asked this with a shadow of his old enthusiasm for the odd fascinations of his youth that still cropped up from time to time: cowboys, the open range, pirates with cutlasses cutting through the waters of the world. 

“If they are,” Castiel mused, “they might know about this ship we’re trying to find.” He squinted at the town. He and Dean would be massively outgunned and outmanned if they breached the town fence, and the same appeared to be the case even if they made it in through the gate. “I think it’s worth trying to talk our way in.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe there’s a bar. It’s pirates,” he explained at Castiel’s eye roll. “There’s always a bar.”

* * *

There was, indeed, a bar.

Castiel eyed the dank interior warily. The walls were painted black where they weren’t old chipped wood paneling, and roughly hewn boards had been added around the booths ringing the room like a shoddy attempt at creating a conference center’s business stations. He could see figures moving inside the little sheltered booths and wondered what deals were brokered there. What threats were made. 

Castiel didn’t need his grace to know that the bar seethed with ill intent. Whatever information they might find here wouldn’t come free.

Dean relaxed in the atmosphere like he’d been born to it. He slung one thumb into the strap of his backpack, jammed with a selection of tradable goods pulled from the Jeep’s storage lockboxes. His other hand rested lightly on his holstered weapon. “Let’s grab a seat at the bar. See what we turn up.”

The bar turned out to provide very little in terms of commercially produced booze. Like Camp Chitaqua, this establishment relied on somewhat dicey home brews for much of its day-to-day liquor. It was easier to distill your own than conduct supply raids for remnant bottles in ever-expanding circles. Castiel had been a part of enough supply runs to know that the further afield a team went, the more likely to find already-raided stores, or a violent band of survivors defending their own. 

Castiel, through long practice, drank his own searing drink stone-faced before settling back to beckon the bartender over. “We’re looking for some information,” he said quietly. “About a ship that might be on the lakes. We need to talk to someone who knows the water.”

The bartender, a silver-haired woman with a long red scar scribbled down her cheek, pursed her lips. “A ship,” she said flatly. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific. And this crowd? You’re gonna have to pay, boys.” 

“We can pay,” Dean said and charm sparked off him like a magic spell as he threw her his best flirtatious grin. “And it’s a strange ship so we’re thinking maybe it stands out. Maybe...a boat nobody wants to mess with? And British.”

“They’d keep to themselves,” Cas guessed, thinking about Ketch and his mysterious society which had never come up in any of their other interactions with hunters. They surely must be insular. “But maybe someone’s run into them? Figure they must need supplies from time to time. Food. The basics.”

“Mag gets around the coasts a fair amount,” the bartender mused. “She might be worth a shout. I can get her to meet with you for a price.”

“What’re you after?” Dean asked carefully. 

“The usual, hon. Food. Weapons. Medicine.”

Castiel slipped his hand into the opening he’d left in his zippered duffel, brushing his fingers against the neck of the bottle. He drew out a bottle of top shelf whiskey they’d gotten from the liquor cabinet of an abandoned luxury home in the middle of Ohio farm country. “For you,” he said. “No matter what. And another for the bar if you’re keeping track.”

She whisked away the bottle as quickly as it appeared, a twitch of her eye the only indication that she acknowledged it. “A good start. That’ll get you in the booth,” she warned. “Mag’ll broker her own bargain, you understand?”

Castiel drew another large bottle from his bag, and much of the weight on the shoulder strap lifted as he did so. He nodded solemnly. 

The bartender took this bottle to a counter in the back, drew a key from a chain inside her shirt, and unlocked a black case squatting before the back mirror. Castiel could see amber and crystalline gleams from the bottles within as she set in his proffered bottle. One small vial glowed faintly purple with the telltale leach of magic. He glanced at Dean and then the vial, making sure Dean tracked it, too.

Magic. The people here knew about it, or somebody was trading in it. There were no hunter marks on the town’s gate, and nothing on the doorframes of the bar to indicate a hunter’s haven. But somebody here acknowledged the existence of the supernatural. Castiel hoped to high hell that it was this Mag contact. Explaining to somebody that they were looking for a magical ship would be far easier if they didn’t have to try and convince somebody that magic existed in the first place. 

The bartender directed them to a vacant booth towards the rear of the bar, instructing them to wait there for Mag to appear. “While you wait, enjoy a drink,” she said in a way that let Castiel know that drinks were the secondary price for a table. “And Mag’ll want to know what you got to trade. She ain’t gonna come if it’s not worth her while.”

“We’ve got weapons to spare, hand-to-hand mostly,” Castiel said. 

Dean rattled his backpack once and the telltale sound of pills in plastic rang like bells. “And medicine,” Dean added. “The good stuff.” He watched her, his casual demeanor smoothly sliding into something more predatory. Something that said, _don’t fuck with me._ It was risky showing their hand like that. But without getting a boat themselves and trying their luck on the open lakes, shore intel was their best bet. 

Dean paid for their drinks with a pair of finely wrought blades, military sharp and expensive as hell even in pre-Fall America. The bartender slid them into her shirt, slotting them in some unseen article of clothing, and nodded at them as though they’d just signed a contract. 

They waited. 

The booth was muffled with the planking extending nearly to the ceiling. But they didn’t dare talk, or weigh their chances with each other. Any sign of weakness, any uncertainty could be exploited. The less these people knew about either of them, the better. 

The booth also made the space more intimate. Castiel was acutely aware of the warmth of Dean’s arm, his low swallows and quiet breaths. He drank his rotgut and listened to Dean existing beside him and tried to keep his thoughts orderly when the alcohol demanded that he uncurl like a cat and press up against Dean. 

When Mag finally arrived, she was revealed to be a short, compact woman with steely thick forearms and a cool expression. “So you’re the new boys in town,” she said, expertly scanning them. Her gaze lit on their weaponry and seemed to linger on the hidden pockets that held blades and bullets. “Justice said you’re looking for a strange ship? Explain.”

“Strange as in...you ever see something you can’t explain? Anything unnatural out there on the lakes?”

“Unnatural?” Mag asked. “I’d call the whole damn world unnatural these days.” Her gaze was shrewd and Castiel decided to make the leap.

“Unusual as in...magic.”

Mag didn’t move a muscle. “You boys believe in magic?” she asked, and it was an honest question.

“Lady,” Dean said, toying with his drink, as tense as anything. “After everything I’ve seen in my life, I believe in just about every goddamn thing.”

“Magic,” Castiel continued. “Invisible barriers. Strange maladies. Those sorts of things.”

Mag nodded. “I’ve been up and down these lakes,” she said, matter-of-factly. “There’re a couple boats that go beyond guns to keep ‘em safe. This a big ship? Little?”

“No idea,” Castiel confessed. “We know very little beyond that they may be from Great Britain.” 

She nodded. “Met a sailor with an accent like that. Piloting a real nice boat. Clean, fast. Expensive.” The way she flashed teeth, sudden and fierce as a knife, made Castiel picture a bloody interview. “He told me about a ship like that.”

Castiel felt like the air around them shift into a tighter state; the booth suddenly seemed doubly close. “He did?” he managed to ask casually.

Mag grinned steadily now, a full Cheshire grin. “It’ll cost ya, handsome.” She glanced towards the table, to where their bags lay between them. “I hear you got some interesting goods you could stand to part with.”

“We do,” Dean agreed. And the haggling began.

When the deal was settled, they were several bottles and bags of medication poorer, and had the last known location of the British ship, dated as recently as a week ago. She thought it might still be stationed offshore, near Watertown, New York, on the edge of Lake Ontario. It was a promising lead, and Castiel felt more hopeful about the prospects of this thoroughly nebulous plan than he’d ever felt. 

Mag shoveled the medicine into a bag she’d produced from a hidden pocket. “You don’t seem shocked by magic,” she said, apparently willing to be more open once she had the goods in hand. 

“Neither do you.” Dean leaned back. “You ever hear of hunters?”

“My dad hunted,” she said. “Never got much into it, though. More’s the pity, right?” She tapped the gun at her hip.

“Not quite the same,” Dean said at the same time that Castiel said, “Hunting supernatural creatures.”

Her brows raised. “Can’t say that I have. That you boys then? Monster hunters?” She hummed. “Sounds awful handy, gotta say. I’ve seen some weird shit out there. Where’re you two from anyway?”

Dean shrugged in reply, clearly done relaying information. He looked at Castiel, who understood immediately. 

“Nowhere in particular and just passing through. We should get going,” Castiel said. “Thank you for your time.” 

Mag watched them slide out of the booth. Castiel still felt the burn of her gaze, and those of others in the bar, as they headed for the exit. 

“Getting a weird feeling in there,” Dean muttered as they crossed the nearly empty main street, making straight for the gate at the far end of the town. 

“Yes,” Castiel agreed. “Fences don’t just keep people out.”

“Yep.” Ahead, they could see the gate and several dark figures converging on it. “Might have to fight our way out,” Dean said tightly. 

“Mmm.” Castiel slipped his hand down to his weapon, undoing the safety and caressing low to wrap his finger around the trigger. He watched the force at the gate grow and a ball of ice swelled in his gut, part rage and part exhaustion. It would be a rough fight. These looked like seasoned fighters, honed by months of battling diseased and hale humans alike. 

“Wait!” Mag’s voice raised high behind them. Castiel stopped, whirled, and lifted his weapon towards her out of instinct. She drew up her hands. “Wait,” she said again. “I’ll walk with you. Tell those boys up there to let you go.”

Castiel took a moment to process the words _let you go._ So he had been right about the intent of the growing force ahead. “Why?” he asked.

“You bring more of that good stuff and I’ll see you’re treated very well in the future.” She looked between them. “You’re fighters, I can see that. And you’re strong. We’re in need of that here, but I don’t think you’re the sort to settle down.”

Dean laughed, a quiet scoffing sound. “So you let us go and we get to be best friends?”

Mag shrugged and winked one steely eye. “It’s good to have friends these days.”

Castiel let out his breath and lowered his weapon. “It is,” he agreed quietly. “We’d appreciate a good word.” He gestured and let Mag lead them to the gate, standing silent while she told the soldiers milling there to stand down and let them walk through. 

By the time they were well away on the other side of the fence, Dean was outright laughing. “Surprised she didn’t offer us booze and strippers. You get the feeling she’s the real power of that place? I thought for sure we’d have to shoot our way out. Pow! Shootout right down the main street.”

“Better not. We’ll need that ammo for the ship.”

Dean looked at him, his face full of something remarkably like fondness. “Quick and the Dead? Tombstone?”

Castiel laughed. “Shootouts,” he said, too astonished to see levity in Dean to do much more than smile. “I should have gotten there sooner.”

Dean shuffled to the side, just a hair, just enough to jostle him companionably. The plan was set, Dean’s mood was light, and Castiel tried not to enjoy it too much. 

* * *

They settled for the evening in the shadowed Zoar Valley, driving into the heart of the forest along a battered skeletal fire road until they reached a spot that overlooked the river branch below. Castiel navigated the fern-gripped wall down to the water to fill their canteens and a larger water sack for cooking. By the time he climbed back up, Dean had a fire started and their ash-stained cookpot half filled with canned meat and a packet of quick-cook rice. He looked up with a quirk of the lips when Castiel arrived and leaned back to let him near. 

Castiel poured water into the cookpot until Dean told him to stop then asked, “Stew?”

“We got the time. Ain’t seen anyone else since we left that seaport. You’ll need a good meal in you before we head on to Lake Ontario. Who knows what we’ll find.”

“Excellent plan,” Castiel said with an appreciative groan. Now that the possibility of food lay before him, a snarling hunger crawled into his awareness. “I’ve got one more thing for that. Hold on.” He retreated back to the cliff edge and grinned at Dean’s worried look, before he disappeared back down over the edge. He scrambled to a steep green slope off to the side which hung above the water and gathered a large fistful of the plants growing there. Then Castiel climbed back up, shaking dirt from the plants before offering them to Dean.

Dean sniffed them warily, then with greater glee. “Onions?” he asked. 

“Wild onions,” Castiel affirmed, pleased to see the light the fistful of slender greens brought to Dean’s eyes. He settled next to Dean on the low felled log Dean was using as a bench. The trunk was soft with rot and thick emerald moss and Castiel sighed as he sank into it. It was remarkably comfortable, sitting there and watching Dean nestle the cookpot into coals he’d broken open along the side of the fire. 

Peace settled over them like a warm blanket while their food cooked. The sound of the forest surrounding them took over. Down below, the water shushed and burbled. In the treetops and undergrowth, birds trilled sleepily as the sun began to set and insects began their nightly whir. 

“Sometimes when we’re out in the field I forget,” Dean said at last, leaning forward to pluck the lid off the cookpot and stir the increasingly fragrant stew inside. He tapped the spoon on the edge then sucked at it while he replaced the lid. “Me and Sam and Bobby used to go camp like this. Bobby was all about living light on the land. Lots of hikes. Fishing.” He sighed but it was still tinged with amusement. “He used to make me cart around the heaviest damn dutch oven. Solid iron. Made pretty good camp hash though. And he’d do this peach cobbler with canned peaches and this just-add-water biscuit stuff… Man, that was good after a long day.”

“That sounds nice,” Castiel said, leaning heavily on his knees so the fire warmed his forearms. 

“Yeah. It was.” Dean set the spoon on the log beside him and gestured around. “ You know, out here, it doesn’t feel like the end.”

“I know.” The world was still a vibrant thing, even though humans were being systematically scoured from its surface. 

“Sometimes I wonder…” Dean stopped and hung his head, examining his hands in the light of the fire, turning them in its warmth. “Is there any chance of us winning? Any hope? Even if I kill...Lucifer. How do we come back from this, Cas?”

Castiel took a long moment to gather his thoughts. Before them, the fire crackled and steam escaped from the edges of the lid of the pot, setting it to a low, intermittent clatter. He’d been lost in dark tunnels of despair for so many months now that the rest of the world felt as blinding as the flames cooking their dinner. He hadn’t wanted to accept the fall of the world and had given up so much only to join the losing side. He had lost himself. But now...

“I’ve been alive for...hundreds of thousands of years,” Castiel began.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re an old man,” Dean said.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I mean I’ve watched this world for many, many years. I’ve seen species rise and fall. Of humans, I’ve seen civilizations die out and humanity nearly extinguished from disease or predators or each other. I used to wait for the end as something inevitable, hastened along by humanity itself. I’ve seen the world almost end, Dean.” He waited until Dean lifted his head to meet his eye, and he saw desperation there, and fear. Castiel risked Dean’s ire, so easily roused these days, and reached for his hands, closing them in his own. Dean’s fingers were cold, despite the fire, and he curled his hands into Castiel’s warmth. 

“When I first realized that the other angels had gone. That I...that I was left here.” Castiel forced the words out. They’d never spoken of this, of his feelings at being left behind. “I was angry. Hurt. Scared. I looked around me and I saw nothing to hope for.” Dean opened his mouth, confusion visible in his drawn brows, and Castiel continued. “I fought, of course. How could I not? You needed me,” he said to Dean. “And I needed a distraction. Bang a few--”

“Gongs before the lights go out,” Dean finished. “Gotta say, if I knew that one line was gonna become your motto for the past year or so, I woulda come up with something that sounded better, at least.”

Castiel laughed. “Well, it was good advice at the time. Sharing a space with you, even once I needed to sleep and it became necessary, kept me going. Less quiet, with Heaven shut up, if you were there.”

Dean looked quietly pleased. “I ain’t exactly a quiet roommate.”

“Particularly at night,” Castiel frowned. “Your snoring--”

Dean leaned away, shaking his head, but he didn’t withdraw his hands. 

“I settled at Chitaqua to watch the world burn, Dean.” Castiel dropped his eyes. “I gave up. I know it wasn’t easy sharing a space with me.”

“Cas, you couldn’t’ve--”

“Let me finish?” Dean stopped speaking and Castiel leaned into his warmth. “But I’ve been thinking the last couple of days. Thinking and planning and-- Dean, I’ve seen the world almost end so many times. And this? It’s awful. But there’s always hope. Always. I can feel it. Practically taste it. I have hope that we can win this fight. And it feels good to think big again.”

Dean let out a long breath through his nose, then leaned forward to press his forehead to their joined hands. He stayed like that for several breaths, and if Castiel had even a tickle of grace left, he would have expected to hear prayer resonate from the man like holy song. 

“I told everyone you were assigned to my cabin ‘cause you didn’t sleep. So I’d get the place to myself, pretty much. And then later, when you started to pass out I’d tell people I got a bum deal, right? I’m an asshole, Cas.” The words came out broken and when Dean lifted his head, tears shone in the flickering light. “I’m sorry. I needed you there, with me. The whole time, I needed you there. Hell, even when you broke your foot and you were the biggest asshole in camp, you kept me grounded.” 

Castiel swallowed against his own emotion rising painfully in his throat. They had kept each other anchored, then, even though they were both lost in the sea. At least they’d been lost together. 

Dean shook himself after a long moment of staring, and he slipped his hand from Castiel’s palms and picked up the pot tongs from the side of the fire. With a concentrated hiss, he pulled their meal from the flame and then tugged off the lid. The smell of fragrant beef and onion stew hit them, and Castiel leaned into it with a pleased groan. He dug his spoon from a pocket and joined Dean in scooping a mouthful from the pot nestled in the stones and fallen leaves at their feet. He raised his spoon between them and steam danced from it like grace. 

“To us, then. And finding another way, together.”

“To us,” Dean said, his eyes deep and mouth soft. 

They ate, and the forest sang around them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Hope” is the thing with feathers -  
> That perches in the soul -  
> And sings the tune without the words -  
> And never stops - at all -
> 
> And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -  
> And sore must be the storm -  
> That could abash the little Bird  
> That kept so many warm -
> 
> I’ve heard it in the chillest land -  
> And on the strangest Sea -  
> Yet - never - in Extremity,  
> It asked a crumb - of me.
> 
> \--Emily Dickinson


	3. Chapter 3

They made their way back to the shores of Lake Ontario slowly. Travel was cumbersome, even when it was just the two of them in a versatile vehicle. The world was too full of broken people, and crumbling places.

They ran into a nest of vampires at a bar outside Andersonville who, while pale and languid from feeding on diseased humans, still put up a hell of a fight. A road blockade further on was a close thing. It had been patrolled by a militia, swelled to over-importance by the waning world around them and bristling with military surplus weaponry. After the fight, Dean had burned their rebel flags for good measure before driving past the decimated blockade. That night they stayed with a small family in a farmhouse buried in a green valley. The normalcy of the meal made Castiel itch with discomfort. Their kindness had been unearned; no monsters had been slain, no threats destroyed. It felt uneven to leave without repaying their meal and lodging, but the family had turned away their offers. (And in truth, they didn’t have much to give.) After the farm, they found shops to raid and kept to themselves, and Castiel recentered himself for the looming fight. 

Further from Detroit, Castiel was pleased to see that the shoreline of the lakes, while fenced in by trees and overgrown raspberries, was free of the tangled planks and metal that had barricaded the water near the city. Here it was almost pleasant in the half sunlight, as they crept down carefully under the lip of the trees to scan for ships that might belong to the mysterious Men of Letters. 

After their sixth dip to the shore to survey the seemingly endless water, Castiel spotted a strange ship. It was distant, more thumbnail speck than defined features, but it shimmered on the water like no other craft out there. It was like a heat haze had settled over that one ship and no other. In fact, no other boats were even nearby. They ringed the larger ship by a good distance, fish waiting for chum at the edges of a shark’s territory. 

“That’s the one,” Castiel said with more confidence than he felt. Dean grunted an acknowledgement, then reached out his hand for the binoculars to examine the ship for himself. 

Dean peered at the distant boat. “It’s a ways out,” he remarked. “And nothing between here and there but water. Gonna need to head out there under darkness.” He grimaced. “And find a boat.”

“There was that rowboat behind that gas station in Shippen,” Castiel pointed out. “It looked old, but more or less intact. And we’ve got to get a sheep’s heart anyway, for the spell to break through magical barriers. Wasn’t there a herd—“

“Dude, there were two sheep. That’s not a herd.” Dean sighed. “And yeah, that’s that only sheep I’ve seen this whole time. You sure this spell needs a fresh sheep heart? Plenty of ducks around. Maybe a seagull?”

Castiel shrugged. “This barrier-busting spell is old. I haven’t used it in...about six hundred years. Give or take. I’d be hesitant to improvise new ingredients.”

Dean tossed the binoculars back with a laugh. “Give or take six hundred,” he said. “Fine. You think we can get a rowboat to fit on the Jeep?”

“Think of it as your very own Mad Max vehicle,” Castiel said.

“Oh, I will,” Dean snorted. “And when the hell did you watch Mad Max?”

“I watched it with Bobby and Jo Harvelle. We were working through a list in an article she found: _Six things you should watch at the end of the world._ We watched three of those movies while you were following up on that California lead on the Colt.” Castiel shook his head. “Humans have a real knack for gallow’s humor.” He started back up the steep, weedy bank.

“Yeah, well. Gotta do something with our time, right?” Greenery rustled behind Castiel as Dean began his ascent up the bank. “When things were rough,” he said quietly. “Growing up, I didn’t have a whole lot of places to go. With Sam and my dad to look after, being in a single room with ‘em got kinda rough sometimes.” They walked quietly for a while before he continued, “When we stayed at Bobby’s he tried to give me my own room. It was way too quiet. Freaked me out. He found me the next morning asleep on the couch, the TV on real quiet. It was a damn good escape from the shit going on around me.” He sighed. “I miss TV.”

Castiel had listened to all this with a growing warmth in his chest. Dean hadn’t spoken of his childhood in months, and had just mentioned Sam’s name like the memory was fond. Like the idea of Sam wasn’t burdened with layered bricks of guilt and anger. Like Sam wasn’t effectively dead, lost to Lucifer forever. It was like hope was a living thing disposed to flourish if only given a tiny amount of light and air. 

Castiel realized belatedly that he hadn’t replied and some time had passed in silence, their boots brushing against low-sprawling ivy. “I miss it too. TV,” he clarified. “It gave me something else to think about.”

“Distractions are good,” Dean said with a gusty sigh. 

“They are,” Castiel admitted, though this time his focus was solely on the man walking behind him. They pushed their way through the dense brush, both weighted by memory. 

* * *

They drove through the meandering hills of New York’s coast with a wooden rowboat tied to the roll bars of the Jeep. The wood creaked and moaned with every turn and rattle of the road but the bleating of the sheep Dean had captured and hog-tied drowned it all out. 

“Explain to me again why we can’t kill the damn bag of wool right now?” Dean shouted over the ruckus. 

Castiel laughed at him with drawn-out delight at his surly discomfort. “Because I liked watching you try to tackle it. It was extremely entertaining.”

Dean made a face, mimicking Castiel, but he punctuated it with a wink. “The things I do for you. ‘It’s got to be a freshly slaughtered sheep’s heart, Dean.’”

“It does!” Castiel insisted as the sheep gave a suddenly loud bleat. “Probably.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Probably, he says.” He peered down low through the windshield, looking under the lip of the boat at the surrounding sky. “Getting dark. We should find a place to bunk down.”

“I noticed a place,” Castiel said. “I saw it through the trees. The road’s overgrown enough to probably be abandoned, but it looks passable to me.”

“Lead on,” Dean said with a small salute towards the road. 

Castiel directed him another five miles to the driveway he’d spotted. They turned down the empty, overgrown lane. Long grasses and thick, fat forbs thwacked the undercarriage like insistent fingers rapping on the car. 

A window glared brokenly as their headlights illuminated the small house at the end of the driveway. “Looted?” Dean asked, suddenly all business.

“Possibly,” Castiel agreed, pulling his rifle from its makeshift holster bolted to the floorboard. He cocked it and held it ready, then together they advanced on the house.

They communicated silently as they cleared the house. The window appeared to have been broken from the inside, like one of the inhabitants had been desperate or crazed to escape. The inside of the house appeared to be more or less intact, although Castiel scared up a family of possums who scattered like oversized rats before him. He laughed as Dean cursed at their passage, eyes glowing bright in the beam of their flashlights. 

“Laugh it up, Chuckles,” Dean groused as he let his gun drop. He dragged a tired knuckle across the bridge of his nose but he relaxed incrementally. The presence of wildlife was always a good sign. Animals kept a wide berth from infected humans and signs of animal habitation usually ensured an abandoned home as well. Dean slipped past Castiel to check the room at the end of the short hallway, where a door stood closed. He emerged moments later with a pleased look. “It actually doesn’t smell like possum piss in here.”

“Bedroom?”

“Yep. Whatever poor S.O.B. lived here totally saved our asses by closing this door before they did a Kool-Aid man out the window. Sheets are a little dusty but it’ll work pretty damn well for tonight. Come on and help me with the shelves in here.”

Castiel looped his rifle across his shoulders and followed Dean into the small bedroom. They set their flashlights upright on the dresser and together dragged a tall bookcase from the corner of the room to stand in front of the window. When they were finished, Dean dusted his hands dramatically. “Home sweet home,” he said with a sardonic twist. “C’mon. Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

While Dean cooked, Castiel wrestled the sheep from the Jeep into the house, closing it up in a room that had once been a small home office. He left the sheep sourly grazing on a pile of paperwork and headed into the small kitchen. Dean laughed as Castiel joined him. “You smell like livestock, man.” When Castiel scowled, he shrugged. “And now we’re even.”

They ate in companionable, exhausted silence punctuated by the occasional weary bleat of the sheep in the belly of the house. Castiel washed the pot quickly, dried it, and repacked their cook gear. He stretched out long and yawned. It had been a tiring day and tension from the lack of sleep and constant hunching under the boat’s canopy manifested from his head to his tailbone. He rolled his neck from side to side, letting it pop around the aches. 

“You’re only gonna fuck up your back more that way. How many times do I gotta tell ya?”

Castiel scowled. “It feels good.”

“And it’s not good for you.” Dean jabbed a finger at Castiel. “And don’t even try to turn this around. You gotta take care of your body.”

Castiel sputtered indignantly. “Dean, you--”

Dean snatched up the cook kit. “Come on, man. Let’s go. Bedroom. You and me.” Castiel tilted his head inquiringly and he continued, “You think I’m gonna let you fuck up your back sleeping on the couch? Maybe you wanna cuddle with possums, but I need you fresh for the fight tomorrow.”

When they arrived in the bedroom, Dean fastened the cook kit to his pack carefully and then closed the door, pulling a chair to rest under the doorknob. Several objects clattered from his hand and, by the light of his flashlight, Castiel watched Dean light three small, squat candles on the dresser. Dean extinguished the match with a quick flourish and turned to Castiel. “C’mon. Shirt off. Lay down.” His tone was gruff, but he seemed...strange, somehow. Dean wouldn’t meet Castiel’s gaze, busying himself instead with dropping to his knee and untying his boots.

Tension buzzed like a welling spring under Castiel’s skin. He pulled off his own boots then, feeling peculiar hesitation, then pulled off his shirt and dropped it onto his shoes. Settling onto the bed felt like an oddly vulnerable move. He felt particularly conscious of the fabric under his shifting skin and the quiet in the room. His pulse picked up as the mattress dipped beside him. 

Dean settled next to him and rested surprisingly gentle fingers at the nape of Castiel’s neck. “Where’s it bothering you. Here?”

Castiel nodded slowly, though the ache seemed to melt away at Dean’s touch, replaced by static anticipation. He closed his eyes as Dean began to work his hands along his spine, curving strong fingers over the musculature of his shoulders and running knuckles down the ridges of his spine. For his part, Dean was silent. Nothing but the press of his hands and his breathing described his presence until Dean paused to mutter, “Hold on.” 

Every bit of ecstatic tension ramped up as the bed shuddered and Dean rose up on his knees to sling one leg over Castiel. Straddling him seemed to give Dean more leverage, because now his hands worked heavily at Castiel’s back, palms kneading with the force of his body behind them. 

“That feels..,” Castiel groaned, then lost the words. 

“What?” Dean asked, leaning low, hands stilled on Castiel’s upper arms. “Is this good?”

“Yes,” Castiel said definitively, pulling a short laugh from Dean that sent hot air prickling across Castiel’s neck. “Good.”

“Good.” Dean didn’t pull away from his bowed position. “Good.” He exhaled again and Castiel wanted to freeze that moment in time. He screwed his eyes shut, then realized he had stopped breathing and opened them, turning his chin back towards Dean. Their faces were close and Dean blinked when Castiel caught his eye, a flash of fear or guilt quickly smoothed into blankness. 

Castiel took a chance. “You know what else would feel good?”

Dean’s tongue flicked out as he nervously wet his lips and then he drew back into a sitting position. His movement left an expanse of cold air between them that Castiel felt deep under his skin. But Dean stayed there, motionless. Castiel took a chance and shifted his hips. When Dean started to rise, Castiel shot out a hand and laid it on his knee, holding him there while Castiel turned over underneath him. He settled with his back against the bedcover and smoothed both hands along Dean’s muddied knees, gripping them tight. 

Dean rested his hands on his thighs loosely, like he didn’t know what else to do with them. “Cas,” he said in tentative tones. 

“Dean,” Castiel replied, his own voice low and certain. He took a deep breath, enjoying the way his body arched into Dean, and the way Dean let him, riding the wave of his inhale. Slowly, he began to slide his fingers up Dean’s thighs. 

Dean hissed and stayed Castiel’s hands with his own. “Cas, I-- You’re my best friend, okay? You’ve been with me through some serious shit and I--”

“Do you think if this doesn’t work I’d leave you?” Dean’s glance away was answer enough. “Never, okay?” Castiel dug his fingers against the hard muscle there like he could anchor the man onto his lap. “Fuck the future, right? I want this now. It’ll make me feel good. Won’t it make you feel good?”

Dean’s reply was a shaky exhale. He dragged his gaze along Castiel as though he could read the truth scrawled across his body. He raised one shoulder and then dropped his chin once in a quick nod. His hands traveled with Castiel’s when Castiel began his slow progress back up Dean’s thighs. By the time Castiel’s fingers reached his waistline, a half smile tugged at his mouth. His stomach tensed at Castiel’s touch and he guided his hands to his belt. Castiel curled his trigger fingers around the belt loops and pulled. 

As helpless as a fired bullet, Dean obeyed the tug and bowed down. His hands landed around Castiel’s shoulders, thumbs brushing his skin as Dean pressed his lips to Castiel’s mouth. 

It was a soft kiss at first, too chaste for either of them. The soap bubble tension burst the moment Castiel felt Dean’s mouth relax against his, lips parting a fraction. Castiel loosed his hands from Dean’s belt and settled one in Dean’s hair to hold him close. The other slipped around Dean’s waist to smooth the skin of his lower back. A new ache took hold and Castiel rose against Dean, groaning against his lips as he felt Dean begin to strain against his own jeans. 

Dean let out a shaky swear, experimentally rolling his hips and Castiel was lost to it. Hesitation fled and he seized a fistful of hair and angled Dean’s mouth so he could better lick into it. Dean surrendered to the kiss for long, languorous minutes before pulling away with an almost-pained groan. He sat up, hair tousled and lips kiss-swollen. “I don’t want--” he began, and Castiel’s heart plummeted through the bed to bury itself in the dirt beneath the house. “I don’t wanna do this just to blow off steam,” he said quickly. “I don’t think I can just...go back to how we were before.”

Castiel smiled at him, exuding more confidence than lay in his thudding heart. “Who says I want that? I want you. I’ve wanted you. If you think anything’s gonna change that after all we’ve been through, you’re an idiot.”

Dean stared at him dumbly and then he shook his head, a smile suffusing him as slow and warm as stew. “ _You’re_ an idiot,” he said at last. He seized one more kiss from Castiel before raising up again and dropping his hands to Castiel’s belt. “C’mon. Pants off.” 

“You first,” Castiel laughed, wrestling with Dean’s belt and pulling the tongue free from the buckle. 

Nudity was no secret between them, but pulling off each other’s habitual layers still felt like a new experience. Dean’s skin shone in the orange candlelight, smooth and scarred in equal measure. He was harder these days than he used to be, more gaunt from the constant fighting and frequently terrible food. 

There was no trace of the fighter in Dean’s mannerisms now. He ran careful fingers along Castiel’s shoulders, his chest, his hips. Castiel drank in Dean’s gentleness greedily. He’d glimpsed this, of course. Sharing quarters with Dean, seeing him with lovers was unavoidable. But having that sweet attention focused on himself was something glorious.

Castiel let Dean undress him and caress him, laying him out again along the bedspread. Dean bent low and licked Castiel’s cock from base to tip. Castiel should have felt cold in the unheated house. Instead he felt superheated. He ran his fingers through Dean’s hair and then held him there for a moment, twitching against Dean’s lips before pulling him away. 

Dean let himself be steered down and over onto his side. Castiel climbed on top of him and pressed a grinning kiss to Dean’s reddened lips. He fitted himself between Dean’s legs and settled his attention on Dean’s throat. His thumbs traced runelike curves along his hip bones before sliding closer to his cock. Dean let out a choked groan.

“Let me hear you,” Castiel growled into his ear before running his teeth along his earlobe. “I wanna hear how I make you feel.”

Like he was obeying a general’s orders, Dean gasped, “Fuck, Cas. That’s so fucking good. Your body, feeling you—“ He ran a hand along Castiel’s hip and slid it over the curve of his ass, pulling at him. “You feel so good. So good to me.” He continued his litany of praise, sweet and low, and Castiel thought he might burn from it. He painted Dean with kisses and the strokes of his hands and the slide of his body. When their cocks slid together, Dean’s words faltered with a delighted intake of breath. 

Unable to wait, Castiel gathered both in his hand, grinning into the curve of Dean’s shoulder as Dean looped a leg around his hip, pinning him close and clutching at his ass to spread him wide against the chill of the room. 

Castiel thrust into his hand, against Dean who undulated against him in return. They settled into a rhythm of mounting power, static building in their bones and buzzing under their skin. Words fled, the air resounding with the sound of sliding skin and gasping breaths. 

Dean lost himself first, seizing up against Castiel with an incoherent cry and spending across their stomachs. Castiel stroked him through it until Dean seized his hand with a shaky laugh. “Too much. Hold on. Just let me--” 

When Dean recovered he flipped them so that they lay on their sides, Dean loose in his movement but intent. He closed his fist around Castiel and held him close with his other arm, fingers splayed across his back. Castiel reveled in the all-over sensations and being held so tightly by someone he adored.

Dean leaned close and breathed against Castiel, “Baby, you gonna come for me?” Pumping Castiel’s cock in strong, sure strokes, Dean began to talk. “Come for me. Fuck that stamina. Let yourself go. Let go for me.” Castiel felt himself building high, hard in Dean’s grip, and he arched into his palm, chasing release. Dean laid a kiss against his throat. His lips were soft and gentle. Reverent. Head thrown back and hips pressed forward, Castiel lost himself. 

Afterward, he slipped into a smooth state of relaxed release. Castiel lay back indulgently lazy, and let Dean clean them both gently with a far corner of the sheet before flipping it back down to the end of the bed. Castiel shivered at the cold and was rewarded for it by Dean pulling the covers up around them and wrapping himself around Castiel like they were two nested shells. Words were inadequate, so Castiel closed his eyes and let his breath trickle out, melting into Dean’s embrace. Dean pressed one final kiss against the base of his neck before settling his mouth there and slowing his own breathing to match. Warmed by each other, they slept. 

* * *

“Leave me,” Castiel growled as they prepared their assault on the ship, the wind stealing the words from his lips and hurling them into the choppy lake. “Get a head start swimming. I’ll trigger the spell and then--”

Dean spat out rain water and glared at Castiel through the persistent drizzle that coated the pre-dawn sky in dim silver. “Like hell I will. We go together, Cas, or not at all.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag, fishing a hand inside to pull out the sheep heart. “Get ready to chant on my count.”

Castiel shifted in the seat of the rowboat, leaning to balance as waves swept the boat repetitively against the invisible barrier. He frowned, but rolled his eyes in response, a surly acquiescence. 

Dean laid the heart in the center of the sigil they’d painted on the bottom of the boat. Castiel caught his eye. “Ready?” At Dean’s short nod, Castiel thrust his fist into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fistful of the prepared herbs and then, chanting, sprinkled them over the sigil in a spiral. He timed it carefully, saving the last line of the incantation for the moment his spiral hit the heart. “Jump!” he shouted, but Dean was already in motion. 

As the spell flared a brilliant purple, they launched themselves from the rocking boat into the cold waters of Lake Ontario. Castiel managed a short dive, disappearing under the water and hoping it would cushion the blast for him. Above the surface, the spell flared like lightning and an explosion shoved at him like an invisible hand, propelling him helplessly into the black waters. 

Castiel fought his way to the surface, sputtering when he finally floundered above the water. Drifting sparks danced across his vision, making him feel like he was on a listing ship even as he kicked desperately to keep his head above the surface. “Dean?” he managed to half shout into the waves and the wind. Fear turned him to twin streams of ice and fire. _Come on. Come on…._

A garbled cry to his right, some distance further from the ship sounded moments later and Castiel turned to see Dean swimming sure strokes towards him. “Oh thank fuck,” Castiel muttered. He kicked forward to meet Dean and together they swam to the boat. 

The barrier was gone, along with the rowboat. Shattered wood littered the water at the base of the ship and above them, Castiel could hear shouting on the deck as the Men of Letters scrambled to raise their barrier again. A ladder was bolted to the side of the ship and they swam to it. Castiel pulled himself up with hands already stiff from cold, and wondered what they would encounter on board the ship. 

The side of the ship was remarkably smooth with shining bolts holding the ladder rungs in place. Detritus tumbled past them, falling from the top of the ship and smoldering even in the drizzle. 

“You think that blast went inward at all?” Dean sounded gleeful at the prospect. 

“I hope so,” Castiel said grimly. A whole ship of unknown fighters against two of them were poor odds. If they were very lucky, they’d be able to capture somebody knowledgeable about Ketch’s device. Somebody who might be willing to give up the location of the hyperbolic pulse generator in barter for their life. 

Hauling himself over the side of the ship at last, Castiel expected ambush. Instead, he discovered that the ladder led to the top of a long wall which ringed a massive, nearly windowless central cabin. The cabin appeared to run nearly the length of the ship, its exterior punctuated with bleating red lights which had been no doubt triggered by their barrier busting spell. On the foredeck, a strange smokeless fire raged, licking at the building with purple flame and sending peeling bits of smoldering wall into the air. 

Castiel dropped down to the deck, wincing at the clang of his heels on the perforated metal planking. Dean landed beside him, tapping Castiel’s shoulder to get his attention before gesturing towards the aft of the ship. Castiel nodded shortly. Light spilled across the wall towards the rear of the cabin like light shining out through an open door. All along the cabin, runes gleamed, painted in thick clean lines.

“Guess they know their shit,” Dean said with an amused huff at Castiel’s disgruntled expression. He pulled out a knife and scratched away a leg of one sigil, destroying the angel warding that ringed the cabin. “Come on, does this stuff even bother you anymore? Mister snores-in-his-sleep?”

“It itches,” Castiel replied, a little petulantly, glaring beyond the sigils to the aft deck. “Let’s load up. I don’t think we’ll be alone for long.”

Dry bags kept their handguns and ammunition safe from the rain and sea. They pulled those out hurriedly and then advanced on the entrance to the belly of the ship. Just as they neared the door, a woman ran out, careening around the corner. Castiel had just a second to register her eyes going wide before they were on her. One shot to her shoulder and her own gun dropped. One blow to her head and she slumped to the deck, unconscious. 

Dean rounded the corner, swiveling on the open doorway. “Clear,” he said quietly, and Castiel followed him inside. 

The interior of the ship was as unlike the exterior as it could be. While the ship itself was a smooth, black enigma, the interior was richly appointed with ornately carved wood trim, deep red flooring, and gleaming brass fixtures. It was a decadent display of wealth packed into a long hallway. At the end of it, Castiel could hear orders being barked in some hidden room. He nodded his head at a nearby door which stood slightly ajar and they slipped into the dark shelter of the adjacent room.

A trio of fighters ran past, outfitted in sleek black gear and carrying highly polished rifles. Much closer this time, Castiel heard imperiously shouted instructions as whoever was in charge fired orders at the soldiers on that floor of the ship. He nodded at Dean, who shoved his gun back into its holster and whipped out a long, thin cord. Dean wrapped the cord twice around one of his hands, leaving his other hand free to grapple the person approaching. They could hear one set of footsteps, heels clicking against the floor sounding entirely unlike the stampede of soldiers before that. As the person passed, Dean reached out, the cord whipping around like an extension of him. In one smooth move, Dean had grabbed the person from the hallway, hauling them inside and cutting off their air with the cord. 

Castiel trained his gun on their new prisoner, squinting in surprise. Their hostage was a man dressed incongruously in a shiny, sharkskin-gray three-piece suit. His hands scrabbled at the cord at his throat, but his eyes were narrowed in a calculating manner. He didn’t struggle, other than for sturdy footing as he fought against Dean’s hold. Castiel slipped to the side on silent cat feet and closed the door as Dean dragged the man further from the doorway. 

Castiel pointed his weapon directly at the man’s heart and smiled cooly. “Don’t scream,” he directed and then nodded at Dean, who loosed the cord. 

The man gasped roughly, coughed once, and then reached up to straighten his tie. “Who are you, and what are you doing on this ship?”

“I met a friend of yours,” Castiel said quietly. “A man named Ketch.”

The man’s eyes widened a fraction. “Ketch, you say?” he asked, for all the world as though he were inquiring about the man over a pot of tea. 

“Outside of Detroit. Lucifer had him.”

“And where is Ketch now?”

“Dead.”

“Ah.” He gestured to his throat. “So this is, what? A petty heist? I can assure you, not all of us are as easily defeated as Arthur Ketch.” His adam’s apple bobbed, betraying a tick of nerves. 

“We’re here for the hyperbolic pulse generator,” Castiel told him. “Tell me where it is.”

“Tell us and we’ll let you live,” Dean said, pressing a white line of tension against the man’s throat again. 

“I don’t know what that is,” the man sputtered. 

“He’s lying,” Castiel growled. 

Dean snorted. “Obviously.” He tugged meaningfully, and the cord sawed against the man’s flesh leaving a bead of blood behind. “You gonna tell us? Or should we find someone a little smarter who’s willing to talk?”

A stiff, mulish expression settled on the man’s face and Castiel sighed to see it. He shifted his gun to his left hand and reached for his blade. A silent swift death was in order, after which they’d have to further infiltrate the ship to try to find the weapon Ketch had spoken about. There was no time for anything else.

Castiel had just closed his hand around the pommel of his blade when the door burst open and six soldiers streamed through, all shouting behind the muzzles of their weapons. Castiel deflated, calculating the odds of success and coming up with the odds against them every time. He dropped his weapon and Dean released the cord from the man’s neck with a grunt. 

Clacking heels resounded in the hallway and moments later, two more well-dressed individuals entered the room. Their former prisoner stepped towards the newcomers and cleared his throat. “Davis. Bevell.”

“Danvers,” the woman barked. “This is the presence we tracked.” She scowled between Dean and Castiel. “Which one is it? Or is it both of them?”

Danvers glanced back. “We didn’t get there yet,” he said smoothly, as though he’d just been interrupted mid-interview. “They’re after the hyperbolic pulse generator, Bevell.”

Bevell’s eyes widened and a mirthless smile quirked her lips upward. “Really? Do they even know what it’s for?” Her eyes traveled the length of Castiel and her nose wrinkled delicately. “They look as though they’ve been swamping. Tell me,” she directed this to Dean and Castiel. “What would you do if you had such an item?”

There was no point in dissembling. “Pursue Lucifer and take him down with it. Arthur Ketch,” Castiel said with emphasis, “told me it has the power to separate an archangel from his body. In the veil, Lucifer will be weakened. Unfocused. We can trap him then.”

“Ketch?” Bevell chirped.

“He’s dead,” Danvers reported. 

“I see. Mick,” the woman directed this at the other poshly dressed man. “There’s your updated status. I told you he’d failed.” She sounded irritated, as though Ketch’s death was a minor inconvenience. “Well. Our intruders are after the HPG, then. I’m sorry, but it’s not something we’d entrust to anyone else.”

“That’s a mistake,” Dean spat. “We’ve been up against Lucifer and come out of it alive and we didn’t have any fancy weapons.” This last was a blatant lie, but Castiel approved of Dean’s calm bravado in making it. 

Bevell laughed. “Gone up against Lucifer? Well, bully for you. As we’re on the same team, as it were, you can tell us where you last encountered him and any intelligence you may have on his current whereabouts. We’ll take it from there. Who are you, anyway? By the look of you, my guess is a couple over-puffed hunters?”

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean growled. “And this is--”

“Winchester?” Bevell looked both delighted and horrified at the news. “Dean Winchester, as in one half of the two American boys who destroyed the world?”

Dean flushed red with anger and dismay, visible even in the dim room, and Castiel willed him to keep a cool head. 

The woman approached, hands poised perfectly on her hips. She made an elaborate show of sizing Dean up and down before shrugging. “I suppose, as idiotic as you are, we could make use of you there. Lucifer is riding your brother, is he not?”

Dean’s hands balled into fists. “Listen, lady--” A bristle of weapons behind Bevell stopped him short and he hissed at her instead. “Fuck you.”

“Charming.” She quirked one eyebrow at Dean before swiveling to Castiel. “But then you must be the monster.”

Castiel fought to control the loathing that welled up at her blatant derision. “Excuse me?”

“Non-human? We have an enchantment laid on the ship that’s rather indestructible - even from your little assault on her primary shield. It latches onto monsters - non-humans - from the moment they come aboard.” She reached into her blouse and pulled out a large silver locket. Opening it, she moved it between Dean and Castiel. The interior glowed brightly, but dimmed noticeably any time it passed near Dean. Next to Castiel, it glowed solar-white. “Forgive me, but monsters cannot be trusted under any circumstances. Winchester, I think we can work together but this...thing...cannot be a part of this.”

Anger ballooned in Castiel’s chest. Of course, his angelic nature was still extant enough to trigger a tracking spell, but not enough to be any good for anything else. Rapidly, he rearranged his plans. What mattered was stopping Lucifer. What mattered was saving the world. He’d allow himself to be locked away so that Dean could work with the Men of Letters. He could--

“ _He,_ ” Dean stressed, “is with me. Give us the device and we’ll get out of your hair. We can get close enough.” He returned Bevell’s cool dismissal with a dose of his own. “Sounds like you’ve been floating in your little fortress doing jack shit. Leave it to the professionals, lady.”

A pink flush suffused her cheeks and she was just opening her mouth to deliver a no-doubt sparking reply when another person entered.

An elderly woman pushed past the soldiers. She wore a soft peach suit and a string of pearls around her throat. “Stand down, Bevell,” she barked. “We’ll not make a bargain with either of them. We can use Winchester as bait and draw Lucifer to us.”

“And the creature?”

“Run him through the tests. See if it’s of any use to us first. If not, dispose of it.” She jabbed a finger at Bevell. “You, with me. Davies? Bring these two down to lock-up.”

Through gritted teeth, Bevell assented to the older woman’s commands and half the soldiers left alongside the two women. The others roughly took hold of Castiel and Dean, quickly divesting them of weapons before pushing them ahead of them. Davies and the soldiers escorted Dean and Castiel deeper into the ship

Roughly, they were thrust into separate cells. Castiel could hear Dean swearing as he was locked into a cell. He looked frantically around him. It was a close room, little bigger than a bathroom with a fold-down toilet in one corner. The walls were smooth and windowless, and the doors appeared to be constructed with thick metal with small circular windows too small to fit more than an arm through. “Fuck,” he bit out, pressing his palm against the immovable door. 

Davies dismissed the soldiers and then approached the cells. He had his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his trousers and looked for all the world like he was on an afternoon stroll in a park. He paused in front of Castiel’s cell. “So. We have Dean Winchester. And you are…?” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Castiel.”

Davies eyes widened. “Oh. As in... _the_ Castiel?”

“Sorry?”

“The Winchester’s own private guardian angel? I didn’t know you were still on Earth. We thought Heaven sealed up long ago.” 

“It did,” Castiel replied shortly. 

Davies strolled out of view and returned with Castiel’s angel blade in his palms. “So this might be your blade, then? Not something you picked up along the way?”

“It is mine, yes,” Castiel said warily. 

“Hmm.” Davies looked down at the weapon, then back up at Castiel, his head tilted and eyes narrowed in concentration. “Do you think Lucifer will come for Dean Winchester?”

“I think he prefers to be pursued, rather than pursue. It’s more...fun.” Castiel let his distaste show. “We were encamped not far from Detroit and Lucifer never once bothered to infiltrate us there. I think it...amused him.”

“Mmm. We’ve been surveilling this area for months now and never once gotten close. Holding Winchester we might have a chance but…” Davies glanced away as though looking behind the ship’s hull. “I believe we’re on the brink. The world will either lose its balance or we can stop it just in time to catch ourselves before falling into true hell. Would you agree?”

“That does seem to be the way we’re going.” Hope fluttered in Castiel’s chest and he bashed it down fiercely. 

Davies unlatched the window in Castiel’s door, letting it clunk against the side. “Hold out your hand. I’ll set you free and get you the HPG. But you have to end this. Stop Lucifer.”

“I’m sorry?”

From his cell, Dean shouted, “Don’t you do it, Cas.”

“Trust me,” Davies said. 

Castiel watched him closely. He could no longer reach into a man’s mind and pull out intention, but there was something wide-eyed and earnest about this man. He held out his hand through the small window. Davies grabbed it with surprising strength, pulling Castiel closer to the door so his arm was completely out of the cell. Castiel started to pull away out of instinct when Davies said, “You’ll need a sigil to kill the tracking spell. Do you want it or not?”

Castiel stopped and Davies hummed in satisfaction. Expertly, Davies flipped Castiel’s blade in his hand and traced a bloodied sigil on the back of Castiel’s hand. “There. Now, I’ll get you your weapons back and we’ll get that HPG before Bevell has the sense to move it.”

“Why would you help us?” Castiel asked, flexing his hand and feeling the sigil burn as his skin stretched over his knuckles. 

“I believe you’re the best chance we have to send Lucifer back to the cage. I’ve been saying for a long time now that we need to tap into the American hunter network, to no avail. We’re dead in the water here, bogged down by our own bureaucracy.”

Davies, for all his apparent mildness, expertly helped them with the rest of their plan, guiding them through the ship to the weapon and then helping them escape. All three of them sailed away from the incapacitated ship together in a purloined life boat as the barrier attempted to spark to life around them. “I’m dead if I stay,” Davies explained to them. “But death is in the cards anyway if this slide towards ruin isn’t halted. I might as well try to stack the deck in my favor.”

Dean had folded his arms and given the man an assessing look. “You coming with us, then? It’s hard out there.”

Davies had laughed. “No, I don’t think so. If my ship’s plan A and you’re plan B, then somebody’s got to stay alive to try and muster up a plan C. There are hidden bunkers in America. I’m headed there to explore the lore for more options. I’m told the Americans held onto some frankly astonishing things.”

When they reached shore, Davies slipped away into the shadows, leaving Dean and Castiel alone. Dean patted the HPG device, secured in one of his vest pockets. Gold glinted at them from under the fastened flap. “Well. That went better than I thought, for once.” Castiel’s mouth quirked upward. It felt too easy. “Your hand okay?”

“It’s fine,” Castiel said, though it did still sting. Dean reached for him, grasping his fingers and pulling up his hand gently. He turned Castiel’s wrist and laid a kiss on his palm. The gentleness in the gesture was almost more than Castiel knew how to endure. He closed his fingers around Dean’s hand and pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to Dean’s lips and sighing against his mouth. He was exhausted, hungry and sore from the day but kissing Dean brought back a spark of vitality that was unparalleled by any other restorative Castiel had ever tried. The hardest part - facing Lucifer again - was yet to come. But for now Castiel let the pleasure of temporary success warm him. “Come on,” he said gently. “Time to get going.” He stepped away, tugged at Dean’s hand, and smiled as Dean followed. 


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel ran his fingers in meditative strokes through Dean’s hair, reveling in the stillness of the evening. After four grueling months, they’d finally gotten a solid lead on Lucifer’s whereabouts. They were ready to go after him, having infiltrated the heart of Chicago and holed up in a long-abandoned condo near one of the demons’ supply drops. Tomorrow, they’d sneak onto a delivery truck scheduled for Lucifer’s compound.

The condo was small, on the first floor of a little four story complex in a largely residential neighborhood. It had blackout curtains on its single window, functioning deadbolts for the door, and gloriously soft furniture. They made good use of the curtains to seal up the rooms tight, and the door and window were well barricaded. Relatively speaking, it felt safe. Homey. 

Seeking perfection for Castiel used to be cultivating prowess in battle and following the Heavenly plan precisely. After Heaven sealed him in the ruins of the mortal world, Castiel thought that perfection was an impossibility, a fool’s dream. Now, he thought he could see perfection in single moments, in spans of time measurable and fleeting. This was one such moment. 

Dean read Vonnegut aloud by the light of a peach-scented candle they’d found by the bedside, his head pillowed in Castiel’s lap. Castiel traced disappearing shapes as he pushed Dean’s hair from side to side with the tip of his fingers. Castiel thought he could stay like this forever, suspended in this moment of waiting. But then, he’d miss out on the next perfect moment. He was tired of standing still, or moving backward. During their search for Lucifer, he and Dean had built something up between them. Castiel couldn’t wait to see what the future might bring, and that in itself was a magnificent feeling. 

Dean’s reading trailed off and he sighed deeply, arching his neck to lean into Castiel’s touch. He set the book face down on his chest and dropped a hand on it to anchor it, before closing his eyes. “I think we’re ready,” he said.

“We are,” Castiel returned. “I promise you, we’ll succeed.” It was an empty promise, but it was the intent that mattered. He watched Dean’s mouth relax and felt his breathing slow. “If—“ But no, it didn’t bear thinking.

Dean opened his eyes and lifted his chin to better catch Castiel’s gaze. “If what?”

“If it doesn’t go well. If we die tomorrow.”

“Cas.”

“If we die,” Castiel insisted against Dean’s upside down scowl. “I will find you in Heaven. I hope.”

“If they don’t let you in the doors because you’re not human,” Dean said with all the practice of an often repeated argument, “I’ll tear the universe apart until I find you.”

Castiel huffed a reluctant laugh. “That sounds messy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s how I do things.” Dean aimed a middle finger towards the ceiling. “Get used to it, bitches.”

“I love you.” Castiel slid his hand to encircle Dean’s cheek, fingertips trailing the stubble along his throat. 

Dean pulled Castiel’s hand to his lips and kissed his palm. “I know.” He winked at Castiel and then opened his mouth and nipped at one of his fingers before sucking it inside. 

Castiel hummed with pleasure, and the anticipation of more. “Good,” he said a little breathlessly. With his other hand, he cast Vonnegut to the side as Dean shifted to press the back of his head deep into Castiel’s lap. Castiel jolted at the touch and brought his hand to Dean’s nipple, stroking it firmly with his thumb. “Good,” he whispered. “Let me show you how much.”

The light traced their bodies with its slow touch and time passed without their interference, marching towards dawn and their assault on Lucifer’s throne room. 

* * *

The Lincoln Park Conservatory rose like a jewel box against the sallow dawn. In a city of broken windows, the fact that the conservatory was mostly intact was something like a miracle. 

From their reconnaissance, it appeared to be laughably vulnerable, especially compared to the thick-walled sanitarium Lucifer had occupied in Michigan. That Lucifer now settled his throne room in a giant glass edifice spoke volumes about his current certainty for success in dismantling the world humans had created. 

Of course, as Dean pointed out when Castiel observed this, the park and nearby buildings absolutely crawled with demons. Castiel and Dean had warded themselves heavily against any kind of magical detection they knew about, Castiel dredging up ancient and untested runes he’d come across centuries ago but never had the occasion to use. With the warding on their bodies preventing Lucifer from tracking them, all they had to do was evade his minions. 

“Easier said than done,” Dean hissed as they lay folded into each other, two large men crammed behind a wooden crate in the back of a delivery truck. As the truck trundled through the streets of Chicago towards the conservatory, it seemed to hit every pothole, jolting them against each other. 

“Shh,” Castiel admonished, though he had half a mind to spring out from behind the crate immediately. The HPG egg bit into his side like an unrelenting fist. He’d have a bruise there, later. Surely they could take over the truck and pilot it towards the Conservatory themselves. But then there would be gate checks or arrival protocols...and their faces were among the most notorious “most wanted” of Lucifer’s new rule. No, arriving as part of a shipment was singularly inglorious, but strategically sound. 

A sharp turn threw them against each other again and then the truck slowed to a stop. Castiel could hear the driver’s lazy acknowledgement of another guard’s greeting, and then the back of the truck was opened with a loud groan. Heavy footsteps entered the truck, pausing at intervals. “You scan the ones in the back yet? Come on!” The driver’s voice sounded surprisingly close. He must have entered the back of the truck along with whatever security Lucifer employed. Castiel was mostly confident that the warding they had painted on the surrounding crates would prevent any magical or supernatural detection. It was a befuddlement charm, meant to throw even the most basic senses off from the truck’s contents. Sense of smell, sound, or magical means should all be foiled. It would only be broken if the wood around them splintered. Or if he or Dean had accidentally scraped away the paint in the rough journey through the city. If…if...too many ifs. Castiel held his breath and prepared himself to fight his way out of a damn box inside a box. 

When the all clear was issued, Castiel finally let himself breathe. The driver’s question came from near the rolling door, sounding incredibly bored by the whole operation. “Why does Lucifer want all this shit anyway?”

“These hold fertilizer, numb nuts,” the guard spat, voice moving away towards the mouth of the truck. “For the plants?”

“Hell of a thing to do. Take up gardening when you could be, I dunno, torturing someone?” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” the guard advised as the door was rolled shut. “Or you’ll be fertilizer too.”

Minutes later, the truck’s engine restarted and trundled the rest of the way to the sprawling Conservatory grounds. Dean grunted against Castiel’s shoulder. “Now?”

“Now,” Castiel agreed in a sharp exhale. They pried their way out from behind their wall of boxes as soon as the truck slowed. When the rear door was reopened, they were waiting at its mouth. 

Dean killed the driver before he could scream, life sparking out of him from Dean’s blade. Castiel swiveled briefly into the open, scouting for more demons. But they had apparently gotten lucky for once, or this was yet another trap. The truck was parked outside a sweeping glass edifice. They were on the north end of the conservatory, backed up in the parking lot to what looked like a side door leading into greenhouse space. Castiel crossed the dead space of the lawn quickly, pressing himself against the doorway. 

Glass - everything seemed to be made of glass. Suddenly Lucifer’s occupation of the conservatory didn’t seem so foolish after all. All anyone would need to do is glance towards any wall to see outside and spot potential invaders. Still, they seemed undetected so far. Castiel eased the side door open, surprised to find it unlocked. 

Inside the conservatory the air felt immediately different - heavier and wet and warm. High in the structure of the greenhouse, birds chirruped like the apocalypse had never happened. Weak sun straggled through the glass, giving everything a soft glow. Long tables lined the sides of the greenhouse and center of the room. Much of it was filled with potted plants and the mundane trappings of gardening like trowels and sacks of soil. It certainly didn’t feel like a demon stronghold. 

Figures moved further inside, dark shadows through the glass. Dean bent low and moved up the aisle, knife in one hand and gun in the other. Near the door to the main display rooms, Dean paused and looked back at Castiel. “Lay the traps first?” he whispered. “Or check for Lucifer?”

“Traps,” Castiel murmured. If they came face-to-face with Lucifer, there would be little time to prepare. And if Lucifer wasn’t here they faced a high possibility of losing any element of surprise for future attempts if they were discovered. 

“Okay. Cover me.”

Castiel watched the main door, as well as the length of the workmans’ greenhouse while Dean climbed onto the center table. Reaching high and squinting against the drifting spray of the spray can, Dean painted a careful angel trap across the ceiling. He stepped back and forth between the tall workbenches to span the length of the path, until the white-painted trap was completed. In the mostly cloudy sky, it was largely invisible against the glass, blending into the window framing. It would hold Lucifer there for a short time, if he tried to leave through that doorway. There was just enough room for Castiel to squeeze past the trap, if he threw all dignity aside and crawled under the tables close to the wall. 

When Dean finished, he climbed carefully off the table, jamming the paint can back into a long pocket in his jacket. “If we gotta go out this way, you crawl like hell, sunshine.”

“Dean,” Castiel rolled his eyes deeply and Dean tossed him a shit-eating grin in return. “Let’s go.”

Inside, greenery flanked the pathway that once led tourists around the conservatory. A bullet-chipped sign on the wall read “Orchid House” with an arrow pointing off to the right. It was quieter than they’d imagined Lucifer’s stronghold, and the silence made Castiel’s skin crawl. They made their way down the sedentary path, pausing in the wide bowl of the Orchid House to paint another angel trap in the tall room. 

Two demons entered as Dean was finishing his paint job along the back curve of the path. They wore dirt-streaked smocks and carried trowels, but their eyes flashed black when they noticed Castiel. For his part, Castiel moved on them like a whirlwind. He sprang out from the greenery before they could shout, staying low and twisting high with his blade to catch one of them right in the gut. As the first demon sparked out, the second whirled to attack. Castiel blocked one blow and absorbed another sharp cut to his jaw before twisting around and jamming his blade behind him. His sword hit their flesh hard and the demon let out one small gasp - a gust of wind against the nape of his neck. Then there was nothing but the sound of a spray can hissing, and the soft _whump_ of a body falling to the path. Castiel dragged the first body off the path, pulling it through woodchips to hide it behind a stand of child sized palm fronds sprouting from the soil. When Dean finished painting the trap, he helped Castiel hide the next body. Dean dusted off his hands and pointed ahead, down the path from where the demons had come. Together, they advanced on to the next room.

The next room was clearly set up as Lucifer’s command room. It swarmed with demons, set up with tables and computers. Castiel swore silently as they retreated from the room back into the cover of the Orchid House. He knew the conservatory was set up in a loop, designed to bring visitors smoothly from room to room. Lucifer wasn’t in the command room, which meant if he was still in the building they would need to either fight their way through this mess of demons, or go all the way around the other way. 

Next to him, Dean shook his head, jabbing one thumb towards the direction they’d come from. Castiel grimaced, but nodded. They went the other way, back through the Orchid House - Castiel skirting the edges of the path to avoid Dean’s trap. 

The Fern Room was surprisingly empty except for birdsong, and they made it through to the Palm House unmolested after Dean painted a wide angel trap on both ends. In the great room of the conservatory, giant palms rose like towers over gently winding paths and climbing vines flowered against the walls. The air was redolent with spice and sweet citrus, and shrubbery and bushy palms filled the gaps between the trees with exuberant life. 

There were raised voices in the garden, mixing together into an unintelligible hash before one voice rose above the din, immediately silencing it. Castiel suppressed a desire to shudder. Lucifer’s voice, currently embodied by Sam Winchester, rattled the vast central room. 

“Loss projections?” Lucifer laughed and the plants seemed to shiver. “Your team delayed a Purgatory strike because of loss projections?”

“Sir,” a frightened voice replied. “We made it through the portal and, just like you told us to, we planted the crystals. But there’re things there… Creatures. Ancient and--.”

“I’m well aware of what dwells in Purgatory: lowly, primordial worms,” Lucifer spat. “Leviathan. Do they plan to resist my rule?”

Dean raised his brows at Castiel and mouthed _Purgatory_? Castiel scowled in response and gestured for them to advance. Carefully, they crept between the massive trunks, keeping a wary eye out for demons. 

The conversation’s volume dwindled, but as they approached, Lucifer’s lackey was easily overheard again. 

“They killed half my team and sent the rest of us back as a warning. By now they’ve probably gotten to all the control crystals for the portal and—“

Closer now, they could see the archangel. Lucifer paced in the gardens, a blazing figure in stark white against the green. “Will you or will you not be instrumental in securing my rule over all four spheres?” Lucifer thundered. “If not, I see no reason to keep you alive. Sloppy work—“

“Means we’re useless,” the unlucky demon said in an almost-concealed mournful tone. “I’ll— I’ll get it done. I’ll go back myself.”

“Good,” Lucifer said. And after another moment, he whirled on the demon, who still stood in a stilted half bow. “Well?” The demon raced off towards the front exit. Lucifer pushed a hand roughly through Sam’s hair and scowled up at the ceiling. 

After a long minute, Lucifer smiled widely. He lowered his gaze, turned, and stared directly at where Dean and Castiel were hidden. “And you two,” he said. “Still alive after all this time?” The handful of demons still surrounding Lucifer looked around in confusion, apparently unaware of the presence of the two hunters. 

Castiel heard Dean’s sharp intake of breath just as his own blood began to thunder. He moved his blade to his left hand and swiftly drew his gun. If they ran, could they lure Lucifer to the Fern Room? That would trap Lucifer furthest from the demon-filled control room. They didn’t know how long the HPG device would take to draw the archangel out. If Lucifer didn’t kill them, possibly an incursion of demons would anyway. _We just need to last long enough to cage Lucifer. That’s all._ Castiel smiled bitterly at the thought. _That’s all._

Lucifer looked at the confused demons flanking him. “I ought to kill every last one of you for letting intruders into my midst, but some of you really are talented gardeners. It’d be a shame to find replacements. Kill these intruders, and I may forgive you.” He jabbed a finger towards Dean and Castiel, and the demons nearby sprang into action, leaping through greenery and skirting the paths to surround Dean and Castiel. 

Lucifer ambled over then, a look of delight in his eyes as he surveyed the imbalanced standoff. “Do you like it?” he asked them. 

“What?” Castiel snarled, and Lucifer _tsked_. 

“This place? This conservatory. Did you know an army of docents defended this for two years? Two years of beating people off with rakes and pitchforks. And lots and lots of guns, of course. And now look at them.” He gestured at the gathered demons. While two of them wore stern suits as generally befit his security detail, the others wore coveralls or jeans with dirt-stained knees. Their sleeves were rolled up, hands covered with earth instead of blood. “Of course I did have to fill them with demons, but their expertise is still useful to my minions who assumed control. Foolish humanity, failing to ward against the corruptive force of demonkind.” Lucifer laughed again, as though at some private joke. “Well, tear them apart,” he said quickly. “And inform me when it’s done.”

Lucifer strolled away like a pedestrian in a park. His demons mobilized immediately, and soon Dean and Castiel were surrounded by night-eyed fighters. 

“Dean,” Castiel bit off. “I’ve got this. Get him to the Fern Room.”

“Cas,” Dean growled. “You can’t take on this many--.”

“You got a better plan? That trap’s the furthest from his guard.” Castiel hauled out the golden egg and jabbed it at Dean. “Take it. Get started without me. I’ll join you when I can.”

“You fucking better,” Dean said, voice tight. He pocketed the golden egg without further protest, and when the demons attacked, Dean cut his way through the nearest one and ran back down the path, shouting for Lucifer. Two demons peeled off after him, but Castiel couldn’t worry about them now. Nine demons grinned at him, armed with knives or trowels. Two of them bore the telltale silver gleam of a purloined angel blade and Castiel watched them closely. 

“What are you waiting for?” Castiel asked, gaze flicking between the remaining demons. If the other demons from the control room were to descend as well, he and Dean would be easily overrun. A gunshot would surely bring them running. He made a quick decision, jamming his gun into his holster and flipping his blade back to his right hand. 

The nearest demon, a petite woman armed with angel blade, laughed as he did so and then launched forward, weapon raised. Castiel cut the demon’s laugh in half with his own blade, jabbing his sword into the woman’s jaw. He whirled on her as she fell, and took possession of her blade. Now armed with two angel blades, Castiel lost himself in the fight, letting instinct take over. 

Eventually, only Castiel remained standing in a wide circle of fallen demons. He panted where he stood, adrenaline ripping through him as he sucked in air. Dimly, he was aware that he was injured. His side burned and his left arm felt weak, like something vital may have been severed. A spider-trickle of blood crept down his temple. But all he could think about, past the fog of the fight, was Dean.

_Dean. And Lucifer._

As though summoned by his thought, the Conservatory rattled like it was caught in the grip of a minor earthquake. “Dean!” Castiel spun around and ran for the Fern Room, hoping beyond hope to find Lucifer snared there. 

What he found in the Fern Room made his heart sink. The concrete floor was cracked in one long, jagged line which had split the two angel traps on the floor into nothing but ineffective paint. Dean was sprawled at the far end of the room, apparently pinned to the path with Lucifer looming over him. 

“Dean!” Castiel sprang forward, only to find himself suddenly suspended in the air, his feet scrabbling uselessly for purchase. 

“Castiel!” Lucifer greeted him casually, turning with his palm outstretched as he raised Castiel still higher into the air. “I ought to kill you now, idiot angel. There’s barely enough grace in you to power a lamp.” Lucifer grinned without mirth. His gaze centered on the bloodied angel blades Castiel grasped in his hands. “That’ll barely scratch me, you absolute child.” He turned back to Dean, twisting his fingers casually. Dean cried out, curling in on himself. Blood sputtered from his lips.

Lucifer advanced on Dean and punched a hand down onto him, leaning in close. “Oh I can smell the angel on you.” He shuddered delicately and shook his hand as though it burned to touch Dean. With the swing of his hand, Castiel plummeted to the floor, barely managing to hold onto his blades. He landed hard and gasped as the shock of it hurtled through his injuries. 

Castiel scrambled to his feet and took a tentative step towards Dean. His palms were wet with blood or sweat, or maybe both, but he tightened his grip on his blades nonetheless. So. Lucifer was letting him walk free. _Your mistake._

Lucifer hummed. “So. Slumming it, Castiel? _Cas._ ” The nickname dropped like acid from his lips. “My, how you’ve fallen, and farther than I ever imagined possible.” He began to pace between Dean and Castiel, along the jagged canyon cracking the concrete. “We could have been allies, except you seem to have actually taken a liking to these creatures. I don’t know which of you I should kill first, but I do think it will be slow. Dean, how long do you think an angel like him will last? I think I could carve away quite a lot of flesh before his grace gave in but he _is_ weak.” Lucifer advanced on Castiel, threading his fingers gracefully together and stretching them lazily. “I suppose there’s one way to find out.”

Castiel looked beyond Lucifer at Dean. _Run,_ Cas willed him to understand. _Finish the job. Get him to the next trap._ Dean must have read his intentions because he scrambled backwards, gaining his footing on the cracked floor. “Hey asshole! Come get me!” he yelled. 

Before Lucifer could disintegrate Dean where he stood, Castiel acted. He threw one of his blades in the split second Lucifer turned away from him. It _thwacked_ with a satisfying finality in Lucifer’s shoulder, flaring bright white where it bit into his body. Lucifer turned with a snarl, throwing his arm up towards Castiel. 

Once again, Castiel found himself flying through the air, only this time he landed against the far wall. His arms were forced outward with a twitch of Lucifer’s fingers, the blade ripped from his grip, and vines reared up like snakes to pin him to the glass like a bug. He struggled against the vines and Lucifer smiled coldly at him. “The next time you see your little boyfriend he’ll be in pieces, little angel.” He whirled angrily away and stalked off towards the secondary door of the Fern Room, after Dean.

A strange calm fell over Castiel. They were, as Dean would say, thoroughly fucked. If he could break free from the vines which held him, he could help Dean. There was still fight left in him. He could hear Lucifer’s demons thundering through the Palm House. He could hear Lucifer’s enraged shouts. There was _no time._ Castiel closed his eyes, summoned the distant reaches of his power, and _pulled._ Too slowly for his taste, but relentlessly all the same, the vines loosed their grip on him. Castiel slipped out at last and slid to the floor. The room spun at the effort he had expended. Still dizzy, stumbling slightly, Castiel picked himself up and hurtled after Dean and Lucifer. 

The floor shook again, the panes of glass surrounding them rattled fiercely. Through the large glass doors just outside the Fern Room, Castiel could see Lucifer standing in the trap Dean had drawn, his fist balled up in rage. Castiel ran for them, falling into the doorframe as the ground shook again. He pushed through the door. 

Lucifer looked back at Castiel, and his eyes blazed red with rage, but Castiel ignored the seething archangel. “Do it!” he yelled at Dean, but Dean was already pulling the golden egg from his pocket. 

Dean pulled out the HPG and held it in the crook of his arm. He slipped a knife over his palm and slapped it hard on a blood sigil he’d just finished drawing on the nearest worktable. “Vade retro, princeps inferni!” he shouted as Lucifer raged. The egg began to glow. 

“Oh look, you brought a toy! You know I’ll only be cast out of little Sammy temporarily, right? And I’ve been riding this sweet vessel for so long, the shock of it might even kill him.” A pulse of energy began to emanate from the egg. “You’re making a mistake!” Then Lucifer began to howl and astonishingly, his grace began to glow around the edges of Sam Winchester’s body. 

“That’s worth the risk if it means getting rid of you,” Castiel shouted over the growing maelstrom. “You’ve poisoned this world with your presence. It’s time you get locked away for good. And this time, all the keys are already broken.”

As the HPG whirred into full power, Lucifer began to scream, battering against the cage of the angel trap with white-knuckled fists. Dean watched his brother scream, grim and determined as Lucifer streamed in a shock of blue light from his brother’s mouth. 

Sam collapsed and lay motionless on the floor, while Lucifer raged against the cage like a tornado brought to life. Dean darted into the circle, dragging his limp brother across the floor until he lay just outside the crystals.

“Dean! Now!” 

They each fished into their pockets, pulling out the bespelled crystals they’d created and dropping them to the four points surrounding the circle. Castiel ripped his shirt up to expose his torso and Dean did the same. 

They each stepped into the wall formed by the crystals around the trap. The border of the trap burned at Castiel’s skin like acid, but Castiel was just human enough to move in its thrall. He pulled open his shirt, peeling back the bloodied fabric of his underlayer to expose a sigil he’d carved into it before their assault began. As he pulled away his shirt, the wound began to bleed again, preparing the spell to re-imprison Lucifer.

Soon, Castiel and Dean stood bare chested around the sigil circle while Lucifer battered at the barrier like an angry ball of lightning. Castiel sliced his palm, and took one last fleeting look at Dean. He looked desperate and exhausted, pale with exertion. But he met Castiel’s gaze with blazing warmth. _I love you,_ Castiel thought at him like a prayer. He nodded once at Dean, and then slapped his chest with his bloodied hand while Dean did the same. 

A pit opened in the floor. Lucifer howled like a gale force wind, sparking desperately away towards the glass ceiling above. But it was too late. The blue light of his grace coalesced over the gaping floor. 

The world swam in front of Castiel’s eyes. His chest burned. His body burned. The last thing he saw was Dean slumping to the ground, and the brilliant blue-white of Lucifer swirling over the mouth of the pit. 

* * *

Castiel couldn’t open his eyes. They were heavy, like curtains drawn against the light. The world was a wash of red around him. The sounds around him were muffled at first, but became clearer as he woke. 

Lucifer’s sharp voice echoed in the room, snapping orders, and Castiel’s heart sank deep into the earth. So. It was all for nothing, then. He wondered if Dean was alive. Surely if he was, he’d be crying out in anguish. _We failed._ How, he didn’t know. He’d seen Lucifer plunging into the pit but maybe he’d escaped. Clawed his way out with the same dogged determination that he’d approached his original escape from the cage. Maybe the spell had failed. Maybe a crystal had broken, or one of Lucifer’s minions had found them and stopped the spell while they were uselessly unconscious.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed. The world went a sticky, staticky black and sound melted into a single high tone. Castiel resurfaced with a barely suppressed start to hear “...find out how they got in and kill any demon responsible for it. Now, _go!_ I’ll deal with these two personally.”

Several footsteps retreated out of the room and Castiel willed his body to move. To fight. 

“Dean?” Lucifer whispered Dean’s name like a prayer, soft and gentle and scared.

Castiel opened his eyes again. Forced them to focus. He was lying on his side at the edge of the circle, collapsed over one of the crystals. On the opposite side, hunched under the tall workbench, a white-suited figure wrapped a gentle hand around Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean lay pale and bloody on the floor. A trickle of red marred the corner of his mouth and he didn’t move. Castiel was too far away to see if he was breathing and he tried to tamp down sudden, welling despair. 

Lucifer bent over Dean’s prone form, hair swinging over his eyes. There was something in the way he held himself-- 

Castiel gasped. “Sam?” he grunted with a mix of disbelief and hope.

Sam looked up towards him and Castiel knew with one look that he was himself, and not possessed. His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow. Castiel couldn’t sense souls anymore, not the way he used to. But he sensed Sam’s soul all the same. It was the way he held himself. It was in the way he carefully touched his brother’s arm. 

“Cas?” Sam gasped. “I can’t wake him up.” 

Castiel hauled himself upright. Shaking, he crawled across the floor to Dean, dreading what he would find there. 

Up close, Dean looked worse, pale skin standing sharply against the sigil on his chest. But his chest rose and fell softly. Dean was alive, and Castiel’s vision sparked at a nearly overwhelming rush of relief. 

“Can you heal him?” Sam asked quickly. Quietly. “We gotta get out of here.” 

Castiel shook his head. “I can’t. I’m not an angel anymore,” he explained to Sam’s crestfallen expression. “Not really.” He laid a careful hand on Dean’s throat and felt his pulse flutter solidly under his fingertips. “Dean,” he said urgently. “Dean, can you hear me? You need to wake up.” He swallowed hard. “Please wake up.” Castiel pushed back to look at Sam. “You’ll need to help me carry him. There’s a truck--”

And then Dean gasped in a long, hollow inhale that sounded like it scraped from the very bottom of his lungs. His eyes flew open, fists flexing on air. He coughed and looked around blearily, his eyes focusing on Sam, and then Castiel. Sam’s cry of happiness was eclipsed by Dean, very decisively, reaching across them and tugging down Castiel down. 

They crashed together and Castiel let the kiss happen, let himself push against Dean with as much fervor as he received. Because they were alive, against all odds. When he pulled away, Castiel glanced at Sam. 

Sam had drawn back, sitting back on his heels. He met Castiel’s gaze with an incredulous smile. “Uh,” he said, running perfectly manicured hands through his hair. “So. You guys know a way out of here?”

“You kidding?” Dean asked as he hauled himself up against Castiel. Together they staggered to standing, leaning against each other for support. “This is the worst defended place I’ve ever seen. There are like twenty ways out of here.”

“And Lucifer?” Castiel glanced around warily.

“In the cage. I, uh, woke up just in time to see the floor close up behind him.” Sam gestured around them. “Thanks for saving me. I thought I could beat him and--”

“Save it,” Dean said shortly, but his voice held uncontained joy. Dean fumbled at his side and pulled up Castiel’s hand. “You can make it up to me, alright? World’s not dead yet.” He squeezed Castiel’s palm and pulled his hand up to lay a kiss along his palm. “There’s always hope. Now, c’mon.”

Together, they escaped the conservatory and headed back out to rebuild their shattered world. 

**Epilogue**

**__** _Life ain’t ever easy._

Castiel ran his fingers through the soil, teasing pebbles from the row he was planting and lobbing them towards the edge of the garden plot. Dean’s words were never more true, Castiel thought. Rebuilding a world was back-breaking work on every level. His lower back did, indeed, ache and his left elbow had begun to develop an occasional twinge that was magnified by repetitive labor. He stretched, hands pressed into the small of his back.

After escaping Lucifer’s compound, the world was still in tatters. Demons and diseased humanity kept the edge of the apocalypse pressed to the neck of the world. Fortunately, Sam had absorbed just as much knowledge from Lucifer’s occupation of his body as Lucifer had gleaned from his own mind. Together they worked to seal demons back into Hell and slip the Croatoan cure to people with the means to manufacture it. Despite all that, Sam was still atoning for his time spent as Lucifer’s vessel. He spent much of his time hunting, weeding out the dark shadows of the world. For a while, Castiel and Dean had joined that fight as well. For a while. 

It had been easier for Dean to leave the life. He’d been wearing thin for years, since before Lucifer’s defeat. One day they’d been offered a deed to a small piece of land in northeastern Kansas by a grateful survivor of a vengeful haunting. To both Castiel’s and Sam’s surprise, Dean had accepted it on the spot. “I’m tired,” he’d explained to them both. “I deserve a rest. We all do.” Sam couldn’t settle down but Castiel steeled himself, like he always did, and took the plunge for Dean. With Dean. 

Now, Castiel squinted towards the sky, arching his back like a hunting bow. The sun suffused him with gentle spring warmth. Five years later, there was no need for a perimeter fence around their property. They were growing food of their own and, more important to Dean, so was the rest of the world. It was almost enough to make him feel safe. The screen door rattled open with the screech of a stretched-wide spring and closed again with a bang. “Taking a nap out here?”

Castiel opened his eyes and leveled a glare at Dean. “How about we trade jobs?”

Dean threw his head back and laughed. He looked good these days, well fed and happy with a full beard that he kept trimmed close. Living the rural life agreed with him and because it agreed with Dean, Castiel could find nothing to complain about. “You’re an awful cook, Cas. Stick to your strengths.”

“Oh, well in that case...farewell, Dean. I’m off to fight monsters.” Castiel stood and dusted futilely at his jeans. 

“No, stop,” Dean protested. “I take it all back. You can make dinner and I’ll plant the beans. C’mon. Pie’s up.” He waited while Castiel weaved out of their herb patch and joined him on the porch. Winding his fingers into Castiel’s shirt tail, he pulled him close and kissed him soundly. “You smell like dirt,” he murmured against his lips. 

Castiel nipped at Dean’s mouth. “You’ll have to wash me off later. But for now, I was promised pie.” He inhaled the fragrance coming from the kitchen. “Pumpkin?”

“And a little squash. The dregs of last year’s haul.” 

“Mmm,” Castiel pressed one more kiss against Dean before winding past him and pulling open the door. “Good use for ‘em.”

Dean followed him in, full of plans for the coming year’s crops. Castiel thought he could get used to this kind of quiet strategy after all they’d been through. Their kitchen was warm with spice and heat from the oven. Castiel settled at the table, his and Dean’s, and smiled across at his partner. Dean was warm, too. Warm in his affections, and his rediscovered thirst for life. It was infectious, and so beyond anything Castiel had ever hoped for himself that he still had trouble believing it was all real, sometimes. He grinned as Dean served him pie and twirled his fork in the air the same way he always used to handle a blade mid-battle. 

Life wasn’t ever easy, but it was so _very_ good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Let's begin with a little fluff, okay?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).


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